""•V        /"~*V       V  I       ,•"-•:       I         -          !***>* 

DOV€RT 


POVERTY  GRASS 


BY 


LILLIE  CHACE  WYMAN 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 


1886 


Copyright,  1886, 
Bv  LILLIE  CHACE  WYMAN. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


To 

MY   BROTHERS, 

THE   LIVING  AND  THE   DEAD, 

WHO   HAVE    KNOWN   WHERE   POVERTY  GRASS  GREW, 
I    DEDICATE 


2228403 


PREFACE. 


IN  writing  the  contents  of  this  book,  I  have 
tried  very  sincerely  to  describe  correctly  the 
life  which  I  knew  best,  and  which  appealed 
most  strongly  to  my  imagination.  The  stories 
have  arisen  one  after  another  in  my  mind,  as 
birds  might  arise  from  some  unseen  nook  in  the 
fields,  and  pass  over  a  cloudless  sky.  I  have 
written  them  as  they  came,  as  I  might  have 
drawn  pictures  of  the  birds  as  they  flew,  not  al- 
ways noticing  whether  each  new  comer  followed 
the  course  which  the  others  had  taken  in  their 
flight.  Now,  however,  that  the  writing  is 
done,  and  the  stories  are  brought  together,  I 
perceive  that  some  impulse  of  my  mind  has 
directed  them  so  that  they  have  a  sequence  and 
form  a  series.  They  drift  in  one  current. 

They  are  studies  of  people  of  different  races 
who  have  been  more  or  less  subject  to  hard 


VI  PREFACE. 

conditions  as  they  have  successively  occupied, 
if  they  have  not  possessed,  that  portion  of  New 
England  with  which  I  am  most  familiar.  I 
have  endeavored  to  depict  the  characters  and 
feelings  of  persons  who  struggle  against  odds, 
and  reach  whatever  growth  they  attain  through 
difficulty.  Hence,  I  have  called  my  book  by 
the  name  of  that  grass  which  gains  nourish- 
ment from  the  sands  wherein  other  plants 
perish. 

I  have  told  of  evil  and  of  pain,  but  I  have 
deemed  that  I  should  be  very  untrue  if  I  did 
not  tell  also  of  grace  and  goodness  and  of  the 
beauty  which  "  rims "  all  "  things  with  mys- 
tical hues."  I  have  tried  to  be  both  realistic 
and  ideal,  because  I  believe  that  the  ideal  is 
the  most  real  element  in  life. 

If  I  have  had  a  motive  or  a  purpose  beyond 
those  implied  in  what  I  have  already  said,  it 
has  been  that  I  might  help  ever  so  slightly  to 
make  the  fortunate  ones  of  this  world  know  the 
less  happy  ones  well  enough  to  sympathize 
with  them.  If,  therefore,  the  question  shall 
arise  in  the  mind  of  any  reader,  whether  by 
individual  effort  or  through  changes  in  the  so- 


PREFACE.  Vll 

cial  organization  the  burdens  that  weigh  upon 
the  toilers  of  our  country  may  be  lightened,  I 
shall  rejoice  and  be  exceeding  glad. 

Finally,  it  is  with  true  earnestness  that  I 
commend  to  whomsoever  I  may  the  children  of 
my  heart,  whose  unsubstantial  breath  lies  on 
these  pages  as  the  races  which  they  represent 
—  Yankee,  English,  Irish,  and  French  —  have 
dwelt  on  the  dear  soil  of  our  beloved  New 
England. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

HESTER'S  DOWER 1 

SAINT  OR  SINNER 32 

LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE 84 

THE  CHILD  OP  THE  STATE 114 

"A  STRANGER,  YET  AT  HOME" 159 

AND  JOE 204 

BRIDGET'S  STORY     ........  257 

VALENTINE'S  CHANCE  .  ....      278 


HESTER'S  DOWER. 


"  HERE  comes  Jeremiah  Razee.  I  '11  just  run 
an'  ask  him  to  take  the  yarn  to  the  village,  if 
you  '11  get  it  ready,  Hester." 

So  saying,  Mrs.  Burrill  rushed  out  bare- 
headed to  the  road.  She  stopped  the  farmer  as 
he  came  along  in  his  market  wagon,  and  ex- 
plained to  him  that  Mr.  Burrill  and  all  the  men 
were  busy,  and  if  the  yarn  was  not  taken  to  the 
weavers  soon,  Patience  and  Wait  would  have  no 
dresses  for  winter.  As  she  chatted  on,  Hester 
Arnold  came  out  of  the  house,  bringing  two 
large  bundles,  which  she  handed  with  an  un- 
gracious air  to  Mr.  Razee. 

"  I  '11  leave  'em  with  Mowry,"  said  he. 

"  An'  tell  him,"  said  Mrs.  Burrill,  "  to  weave 
one  piece  all  blue,  an'  have  the  warp  red  an' 
the  fillin'  blue  in  the  other." 

"  I  guess  I  '11  remember,"  replied  Mr.  Razee, 
stowing  away  the  bundles,  and  adding,  as  he 
leaned  over  the  wagon  seat,  with  his  face  turned 


2  HESTER'S  DOWER. 

from  her,  "How  do  ye  do,  Hester?  Stayin' 
with  Mis'  Burrill  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Hester,  shortly. 

"  Shubael  's  kinder  poorly,"  pursued  the  far- 
mer, with  apparent  irrelevancy.  "  It 's  dretful 
onconvenient,  his  bein'  sick  jest  now ;  but,  some- 
how, Shubael  never  was  handy  at  choosin'  the 
right  time  for  doin'  anything."  Hester  flushed 
angrily;  the  farmer  smiled  grimly,  and  went 
on :  "  'T  ain't  near  so  bad  as  havin'  Jabez  sick 
would  ha'  ben ;  but  then  Jabez  would  n't  ha' 
ben  sick  afore  the  fall  work  was  done." 

"  You  and  he  are  pretty  smart,"  said  Mrs. 
Burrill. 

"  Bear  our  years  putty  well  ?  Yes,  I  'm 
more  of  a  hand  at  work  now  than  Shubael  when 
he  's  well,  for  all  he  's  twenty  years  younger  'n 
me.  I  expec'  it  was  the  pettin'  mother  gin 
Shubael,  he  bein'  her  baby,  that  kep'  him  from 
toughenin'.  A  good  seasonin'  to  work  an'  worry 
don't  hurt  no  boy,  an'  often  makes  the  man. 
Wai,  I  guess  I  must  be  goin' !  " 

"  I  sent  word,"  said  Mrs.  Burrill,  "  to  Shu- 
bael, this  mornin',  to  come  here  an'  make  us  all 
some  shoes,  as  soon  as  he  could.  Otis  got  in 
the  leather  last  week." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  he  's  well  enough  to  do  that 
now,"  said  Mr.  Razee,  thoughtfully.  "  I  '11  see 
that  he  conies  round  to-morrow." 


HESTER'S  DOWER.  8 

The  farmer  gathered  up  his  reins,  nodded, 
and  drove  off.  Mrs.  Burrill  turned  to  Hester. 

"  Come  in,  now,"  she  said,  "  an'  we  '11  go  to 
work  in  airnest,  to  make  the  hog  puddin's,  so 
we  can  dip  candles  to-morrow,  an'  get  through 
before  Saturday's  bakin'." 

Hester  Arnold  was  the  tailoress  from  the  vil- 
lage. She  was  a  straight,  tall,  dark,  handsome 
woman  of  thirty-five.  Just  now,  an  angry  light 
glittered  in  her  eyes.  She  knew  what  Farmer 
Razee  meant  by  saying  that  Shubael  had  never 
chosen  the  right  time  to  do  anything.  She  re- 
membered very  well  the  day,  fifteen  years  be- 
fore, when  Shubael  had  asked  her  to  marry 
him,  and  she,  furious  from  some  quarrel  with 
Jeremiah,  who  also  courted  her,  had  refused  the 
man  she  had  loved  ever  since  she  had  fought 
childish  battles  for  him.  Shubael  had  no  en- 
ergy, and  when  Hester,  the  only  person,  except 
his  mother,  who  had  ever  believed  in  him,  fell 
away  from  him  angrily  he  was  utterly  downcast, 
and  sank  at  once  into  the  character  he  had  ever 
since  maintained  of  harmless  ne'er-do-well. 
Hester  long  hoped  he  would  come  back  to  her, 
but  he  never  had  the  courage.  Jabez  never 
married.  Jeremiah,  after  Hester  had  refused 
him,  straightway  took  a  wife,  who  toiled  for  him 
several  years,  and  then  died  childless, — a  desert 
life  that  left  no  trace  !  Shubael  assisted  4n  the 


4  HESTER'S  DOWER. 

farm  work,  and  made  shoes  at  odd  times.  He 
also  solaced  his  dreary  days  by  writing  dog- 
gerel verses,  which,  when  written,  he  hid  care- 
fully from  the  scornful  eyes  of  his  brothers. 

When  Mrs.  Burrill  and  Hester  Arnold  reen- 
tered  the  kitchen,  they  found  a  brass  kettle  that 
would  hold  half  a  dozen  gallons  swinging  over 
the  fire.  It  was  nearly  full  of  milk,  and  a  tall, 
gaunt  woman  stood  busily  stirring  it.  She 
looked  up,  and  said,  "  It 's  all  ready  for  the 
things  to  go  in.  Sech  a  beautiful  kettle!  I 
never  seed  nothin'  so  lovely.  I  can't  keep  my 
eyes  off  it.  Wai,  things  does  go  in  a  curious, 
contrary  way  in  this  world.  If  I  had  married 
the  man  o'  my  ch'ice,  /  might  ha'  had  a  brass 
kettle ;  but  now  I  'm  nothin'  but  poor,  forlorn, 
forsaken  Mose  Almy's  wife,  —  nothin'  to  cook, 
an'  nothin'  to  cook  it  in." 

With  this  dismal  lament,  the  woman  who 
had  come  in  to  "help"  turned  back  to  her 
stirring. 

"  I  should  think  't  was  more  'n  brass  kettles 
might  be  got  by  marryin'  the  man  o'  your 
choice,"  said  Hester.  When  she  had  said  this 
she  flushed  a  little,  and  went  rapidly  to  work, 
bringing  molasses,  chopped  suet,  raisins,  allspice, 
and  Indian  meal,  which  were  to  be  boiled  in 
the  milk. 

"  The  children  must  go  for  oak  leaves,"  said 


HESTER'S  DOWER.  5 

Mrs.  Burrill,  as  the  afternoon  wore  away ;  and 
Hester  looked  out  of  the  window  and  noticed 
that  a  great  many  leaves  had  fallen  the  night 
before. 

Rhode  Island  farmers  used  very  little  white 
flour  at  this  time,  and  the  great  loaves  of  brown 
bread  which  they  ate,  made  of  rye  and  Indian 
meal,  were  baked  in  a  brick  oven  on  oak  leaves. 
The  leaves  were  laid  on  a  wooden  shovel,  the 
dough  was  built  up  on  .  them,  and  then  the 
shovel  was  pushed  into  the  oven,  and  dexter- 
ously withdrawn,  leaving  the  bread  on  the 
leaves,  which  marked  the  bottom  of  the  loaves 
when  baked. 

"  I  '11  go  with  the  children,"  said  Hester. 

"  Are  you  het  up  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Burrill,  who 
could  imagine  no  other  reason  for  wanting  to 
take  a  walk  in  the  cool  autumnal  afternoon. 

Hester  said  "  Yes,"  and  went  out  with  the 
little  girls.  "  Mose  Alrny's  wife  "  put  on  her 
faded  hood  and  walked  with  them  down  the 
road  till  they  stopped  under  a  wide-spreading 
oak-tree.  Then  she  plodded  on,  hoping  to  get 
home  in  time  to  have  her  husband's  supper 
ready,  when  he  should  come  in  from  the  tin- 
shop,  where  he  tinkered  the  worn-out  milk  pails 
of  the  neighborhood.  She  carried  some  milk 
and  eggs,  the  payment  of  her  day's  labor,  and 
inwardly  exulted  at  having  something  to  cook. 


6  HESTERS  DOWER. 

Hester  and  the  children  had  slender  sticks, 
each  sharpened  at  one  end  and  having  a  crotch 
at  the  other.  They  turned  over  the  fallen 
leaves,  chose  the  largest  and  most  perfect,  and 
strung  them  on  their  sticks.  When  full,  the 
sticks  would  be  hung  up  in  the  Burrill  garret, 
to  be  used  as  wanted,  till  the  autumn  came 
again.  Hester  loved  the  work,  for  she  and 
Shubael  Razee  had,  in  their  childhood,  gath- 
ered leaves  together,  and  gloated  over  the 
beauty  of  their  treasures. 

With  a  heart  full  of  memories,  she  busied 
herself,  and  the  children  ran  back  and  forth, 
shouting  cheerfully,  when  they  heard  the  rum- 
bling of  a  wagon,  and  Hester  looked  up  and 
saw  Jeremiah  Razee  driving  along  the  road. 
On  the  seat  beside  him  sat  Shubael.  To  her 
surprise,  Jeremiah  drew  up  his  horse  violently 
at  sight  of  her,  and  descended  to  the  ground, 
throwing  the  reins  to  Shubael,  who  took  them 
without  lifting  his  eyes. 

As  Jeremiah  walked  towards  Hester,  she 
started  away,  feeling  defiant  and  alarmed,  but 
he  stopped  her.  "  Hester,"  said  he,  in  a  low 
tone,  "  you  may  tell  Mis'  Burrill  I  took  her 
yarn  an'  gin  her  message  all  straight.  We  're 
on  our  way  now  to  the  village.  I  want  to  git 
my  tire  reset,  an'  Shubael  has  broke  his  best 
awl,  an'  must  git  another  ef  he 's  goin'  to  make 
shoes." 


HESTER'S  DOWER.  7 

Hester  perceived  a  slight  embarrassment  in 
the  farmer's  manner,  and  grew  cool.  She  an- 
swered in  loud,  clear  tones,  which  the  shame- 
faced man  in  the  wagon  could  not  fail  to 
hear :  — 

"  I  really  have  n't  the  least  desire  to  know 
why  you  're  goin'  to  the  village,  Mr.  Razee.  I 
never  was  particularly  interested  in  your  move- 
ments, you  know ;  and  I  can't  say  that  I  am 
very  much  concerned  about  Shubael's  awl  nei- 
ther, as  he  don't  even  take  pains  to  speak  to 
me." 

Shubael  raised  his  head  at  this,  and  some- 
thing like  a  manly  gleam  came  into  his  dull 
eyes. 

"  I  don't  speak  to  you  now,  Hester,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  will  when  Jeremiah  has  had  his  say." 

"  Hold  your  tongue  !  "  shouted  Jeremiah,  and 
poor  Shubael  cowered  a  little.  Hester  was  cer- 
tainly made  of  strange  stuff  that  her  heart  did 
not  grow  cold  to  the  timid  man,  but  there  are 
some  women  to  whom  love  is  like  death.  Once 
struck  by  it,  nothing  cures  them. 

"  I  don't  see  the  need  of  anybody's  saying 
anything,"  said  she,  inconsequently. 

"  But  I  do  !  "  growled  Jeremiah,  coming 
closer  to  her.  "I  want  a  few  things  settled 
afore  Shubael  goes  to  Mis'  Burrill's  to  make 
them  shoes.  Be  you  ready  to  listen  to  me,  at 


8  HESTER'S  DOWER. 

last  ?  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  hain't 
been  shif  less  nor  behindhand  in  my  affairs,  an' 
you  could  n't  do  better.  An'  so  the  long  an' 
short  of  it  is,  will  you  marry  me?  I  hain't 
nothin*  to  say  agin  my  wife,  —  she  was  a  good 
woman  an'  a  good  worker ;  but  you  know  that 
I  never  see  the  woman  that  I  thought  fit  to  hold 
a  candle  to  you." 

Hester  wickedly  let  him  go  on  with  his  dec- 
laration till  he  brought  it  to  a  full  stop  him- 
self. She  had  a  fierce  delight  in  the  moment. 
His  agitation  and  the  unseemly  manner  of  his 
proposal  showed  her  that  he  feared  to  have  Shu- 
bael  go  to  Mrs.  Burrill's  while  she  was  there. 
Perhaps  they  had  had  words  about  her !  Jere- 
miah's fear  shot  hope  into  Hester's  heart. 

She  spoke  again  in  a  loud,  clear  tone  :  "  No, 
Mr.  Razee ;  you  had  my  answer  long  ago." 

Jeremiah  started  towards  her,  as  if  he  would 
stop  her  scornful  mouth,  but  she  laughed  bit- 
terly in  his  face.  He  grew  very  white,  and 
stood  still  looking  at  her.  Shubael,  at  this  mo- 
ment, sprang  from  the  wagon,  and  walked  rap- 
idly to  the  woman,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  'm  only  a  broken-down  man,"  he  choked, 
"but  —  will  you  have  me ?"  She  silently  laid 
her  hand  in  his. 

The  elder  brother  jumped  into  his  wagon, 
struck  the  horse  heavy  blows,  and  drove  away. 


HESTER'S  DO  WES.  9 

As  the  wagon  rattled  over  the  brow  of  the  ad- 
jacent hill,  Hester  and  Shubael  turned  to  see  the 
two  little  girls  staring,  wide-eyed,  frightened 
and  amazed. 

"  Never  mind  that  old  fellow,"  said  Hester, 
with  a  trembling  laugh.  "  And  let 's  pick  up 
the  oak  leaves  for  Patience  £nd  Wait,  just  as 
we  used  to,  when  we  were  no  bigger  'n  they, 
Shubael." 

So  these  two  were  engaged,  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  country  folk,  and  Jeremiah's  wrath 
waxed  ever  greater  as  the  days  went  by.  The 
Burrill  children  reported  all  they  had  compre- 
hended of  the  strange  scene  they  had  witnessed, 
so  that  it  came  to  be  generally  understood  that 
Hester  had  refused  Jeremiah  in  the  very  pres- 
ence of  his  brother.  Some  jeering  speeches 
about  it  were  made  to  the  old  farmer,  who 
swore  that  he  would  yet  take  his  revenge  on  the 
woman.  These  threats  were  reported  by  Mose 
Almy's  wife,  but  Hester  only  laughed  in  down- 
right contempt, — a  laugh  of  which,  in  turn,  old 
Razee  was  told,  and  his  evil  passion  blazed  yet 
higher. 

Five  weeks  after  their  engagement  the  lovers 
were  married.  They  hired  a  house  with  Mose 
Almy,  and  set  up  their  humble  home.  The 
winter  wore  happily  away.  The  luckless  Moses 
and  the  helpless  Shubael  took  kindly  to  each 


10  HESTERS  DOWER. 

other.  Hester  did  her  own  work,  and  tried  to 
infuse  some  order  into  the  proceedings  of  the 
Aliny  half  of  the  house.  She  still  took  in  sew- 
ing, but  also  laid  up  stores  of  homely  household 
wealth  for  herself,  —  linen  and  braided  mats, 
and  yarn  ready  to  be  woven.  She  was  not  a 
demonstrative  woman,  but  the  shoemaker  whom 
she  served  in  such  a  wifely  way  was  a  living 
poem  to  her.  His  gentle  manner,  his  patheti- 
cally feeble  fancies,  embodied  for  her  all  that 
was  beautiful  and  lovable  under  heaven,  while 
she  seemed  to  him  wholly  adorable  in  her 
strength  and  potency. 

When  spring  came,  Hester  withdrew  her 
money  from  the  village  bank  and  gave  it  to 
Shubael,  bidding  him  buy  a  lot  of  land  and 
straightway  begin  to  build  a  house.  He  stared 
blankly  at  her,  as  she  put  the  savings  of  years 
into  his  hands.  She  laughed  heartily,  and  said, 
"  That 's  the  one  thing  that  keeps  me  from  bein' 
sorry  I  did  n't  marry  you  when  you  asked  me 
first.  If  I  had  I  should  never  have  had  any- 
thing to  give  you." 

At  this  tender  speech,  the  Yankee  shyness  of 
the  husband  melted,  and  he  kissed  his  wife. 
He  had  long  before  spent  his  paternal  inherit- 
ance, and  before  his  marriage  had  lived  with 
his  brothers,  a  mere  day-laborer  on  their  land. 
Now,  some  homesick  instinct  prompted  him,  and 


HESTER'S  DOWER.  11 

he  bought  of  them  a  corner  of  the  old  farm  on 
which  to  erect  his  humble  dwelling.  It  was  a 
very  little  house,  but  in  the  fall  Hester  and  her 
husband  moved  into  it  with  unmixed  pride  and 
satisfaction.  There  they  spent  six  contented 
months,  and  then  the  shoemaker  fell  ill.  It  was 
spring  fever,  the  wife  said,  as  she  nursed  him ; 
but  spring  passed,  June  came,  and  ho  grew  no 
better,  till  at  last  a  bitter  truth  forced  itself 
into  her  consciousness  with  that  unrelenting 
persistency  with  which  bitter  truths  will  in- 
trude. 

When  the  July  heat  was  fiercest,  Shubael 
sank  rapidly.  "  I  guess,"  he  said  one  day,  gasp- 
ing in  the  hot  air  that  burned  his  throat,  —  "I 
guess  heaven  '11  be  cooler  than  this  'ere  world, 
and  may  be  it  '11  suit  me  better,  somehow,  — 
may  be  it  will.  I  was  allus  a  round  peg  in  a 
square  hole  here,  He.ster,  except  for  you  ; "  and 
a  faint,  spiritualized  smile  conveyed  his  ten- 
der gratitude  for  the  love  that  had  "suited" 
his  latter  days  so  well.  In  a  moment  he  spoke 
again,  while  the  dark,  handsome  woman  hung 
over  him  with  yearning  eyes.  "  I  guess,  Hes- 
ter," he  said,  "  I  sha'n't  find  nothin'  in  heaven 
that  I  '11  like  better  'n  I  've  liked  you.  Jere- 
miah kep'  us  apart  a  long  time.  I  never  telled 
you  just  how.  But  I  got  tired  o'  bein'  alone. 
I  'd  get  tired  o'  bein'  alone  in  heaven.  So  I 
hope  you  won't  keep  me  waitin'  long." 


12  HESTER'S  DOWER. 

"  I  'd  go  with  you,  if  I  could,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  smiling  feebly  again.  "You  'd 
make  it  seem  more  home-like  among  all  the 
angels,  an'  the  jewels,  an'  the  music." 

When  the  cool  of  the  evening  came  merci- 
fully down,  Hester  sat  alone  by  her  husband's 
body. 


Jabez  and  Jeremiah  had  never  spoken  to 
Hester  or  Shubael  after  the  marriage,  but  the 
brothers  attended  the  funeral.  They  waited  in 
the  yard,  till  the  minister  was  about  to  begin, 
when  they  came  solemnly  into  the  house,  each 
holding  his  hat  with  the  knotted  fingers  of  his 
large,  brown  hand.  They  sat  down  side  by 
side,  and  crossed  their  legs  at  the  same  instant. 
Hester  was  very  near  them,  and  she  felt  a  thrill 
of  repugnant  pain  shoot  through  her.  The  min- 
ister opened  the  Bible,  and  the  two  men  settled 
the  hard  lines  of  their  leathery  faces  into  still 
harder  fixedness.  They  did  not  seem  to  breathe, 
and  their  eyes  stared  steadily  over  Shubael's 
coffin  as  if  it  were  not  there.  The  widow's 
heart  swelled.  Could  she  not  be  free  from  the 
agony  of  hatred  even  in  this  one  hour  of  be- 
reavement ?  The  presence  of  Jeremiah  Razee 
at  that  moment  outraged  her.  It  blighted  her 


HESTERS  DOWER.  13 

natural  and  wholesome  grief,  turning  it  into 
unseemly  wrath  and  pain.  He  stood  between 
her  and  her  dead  love,  she  passionately  thought, 
as  for  many  years  he  had  stood  between  her 
and  her  living  lover.  She  wanted  to  rise  up 
and  command  him  to  go  forth  and  leave  to  her 
what  was  her  own. 

The  eyes  of  the  assembled  neighbors  con- 
strained her  to  be  still.  The  New  England 
sense  of  decency  was  strong  within  her.  She 
was  determined  to  make  no  scene  by  Shubael's 
body,  and  so  was  enabled  to  control  every  nerve 
and  muscle,  while  the  service  proceeded. 

At  the  grave,  the  brothers  were  again  near 
her.  Thus  far,  they  had  exchanged  no  word 
with  her,  but  when  the  interment  was  finished, 
each  took  her  hand  and  then  solemnly  dropped 
it.  Still  she  endured  in  silence. 

The  Burrills  took  her  back  to  her  deserted 
home,  and  left  Patience  with  her.  When  night 
fell,  Hester  went  into  her  room  and  shut  the 
door.  She  loathed  herself,  for  having  been 
so  moved  by  hatred,  when  her  soul  should  have 
been  filled  with  soft  and  sacred  emotion.  She 
felt  that  she  had  been  robbed  of  something. 
Her  grief  had  been  defiled.  Thoughts  of  Jere- 
miah Razee  rushed  over  her,  stamping  out  sweet 
and  tender  memories,  like  the  feet  of  swine 
trampling  on  lovely  young  live  things.  She 


14  HESTER'S  DOWER. 

hated  herself,  because  she  could  not  stop  think- 
ing of  him,  but  more  she  hated  him  for  caus- 
ing such  evil  passion  to  enter  her  heart,  at  such 
a  time. 

"  He  spoilt  Shubael's  life,  an'  he  spoils  my 
sorrow,"  she  muttered,  and  then  suddenly  all 
the  stern  composure  of  her  blood  gave  way. 
The  dark  hours  slowly  passed,  but  only  God 
—  and  it  may  be  Shubael's  ghost,  also  —  be- 
held her  in  the  abandonment  of  her  rage  and 
grief. 

She  came  out  in  the  morning,  very  quiet,  but 
with  pale  face,  and  hollow  eyes. 


Four  days  after  the  funeral  Jeremiah  Razee 
knocked  loudly  at  the  widow's  door.  Hester 
opened  it  herself,  and  turned  her  hard  eyes  on 
the  farmer's  face. 

"  Why  do  you  come  now  ?  "  asked  she. 

The  farmer  smiled  with  slow  malice,  and 
shifted  his  weight  from  one  foot  to  the  other, 
as  he  stood  on  the  little  stone  step,  which  Shu- 
bael  and  Hester  had  laid  in  place  together. 

"  I  come  on  business,"  said  he,  at  last. 

*'  I  hain't  no  business  with  you,  nor  never 
mean  to  have  !  "  retorted  the  widow. 

"  No  ?  "  said  he,  inquiringly.  "  Wai,  I  've 
business  with  you.  Shall  I  step  in  ?  " 


HESTER'S  DOWER.  15 

"  No.  Whatever  you  have  to  say,  you  may 
say  here." 

"  Eh  ?  Wai,  I  guess  not.  I  guess  I  'd  rather 
walk  in." 

"  You  sha'  n't  do  no  such  thing." 

"  Wai,  I  kin  wait  a  little  about  that.  Shu- 
bael  did  n't  leave  no  will,  did  he  ?  " 

"  It 's  none  o'  your  business  !  "  cried  Hester. 

"  Yes,  it  is  some  o'  my  business.  Because,  if 
he  did  n't,  the  biggest  part  of  this  house  an'  lot 
happens  to  belong  to  me  'n'  Jabez.  I  hain't 
said  nothin'  about  it  afore.  Waited  till  now, 
thinkin',  if  there  was  a  will,  you  'd  be  glad 
enough  to  perduce  it.  I  s'pose  you  know  you 
've  only  got  your  widder's  dower,  if  there  ain't 
no  will." 

"  My  widow's  dower !  "  cried  she.  "  Why,  I 
gave  Shubael  every  cent  he  had  to  buy  this 
land,  an'  most  of  the  money  for  the  house  ;  an' 
the  rest  of  it  we  earned  together,  he  makin' 
shoes  an'  I  sewin',  after  we  was  married.  He 
had  n't  but  three  dollars  when  he  married  me." 

"  No,  I  calk'lated  not.  He  never  was  fore- 
handed, an'  never  saved  nothin'.  I  allus  told 
him  he  was  a  fool  not  to  lay  up  for  a  rainy  day, 
but  luck  stood  him  in  stead  of  thrift.  He  was 
lucky  in  marryin'  you,  —  luckier  'n  some  other 
folks  was,  then.  But  now  he  's  dead,  an'  it  'a 
my  turn." 


16  HESTER'S  DOWER. 

Dazed  and  furious,  Hester  cried  in  a  low 
voice,  "  You  wretch  !  Do  you  mean  to  talk  of 
such  things,  and  Shubael  only  four  days  in  his 
grave  ?  " 

Then  she  turned  away,  and  sobbed  as  she  had 
never  sobbed  since  her  husband  died. 

"  Wait  till  you  're  axed,  ma'am,  afore  you 
think  a  man  wants  to  marry  you,"  said  Jere- 
miah, slowly.  "What  I  mean  is  that  Jabez 
an'  me  owns  two  thirds  of  this  house  an'  lot 
now,  as  Shubael's  heirs,  an'  you  have  the  use  of 
one  third  for  life,  and  that  's  all.  You  can 
stay  here  if  you  want  to,  by  payin'  rent  for  the 
other  two  thirds.  We  won't  turn  you  out,  but 
if  you  choose  to  go  I  've  got  a  tenant  in  my 
eye,  an'  you  '11  have  your  share  of  the  rent  he 
pays.  As  for  the  furniture,  you  own  half,  an' 
I  '11  send  up  the  officer,  this  arternoon,  to  make 
an  inventory,  an'  divide  it  square.  I  won't 
walk  in  now,  as  you  don't  seem  hospitable  in 
your  feelin's  ;  but  p'raps  you  '11  remember,  arter 
I  'm  gone,  how  many  times  you  've  thought 
you  'd  got  the  best  of  me." 

When  he  had  finished,  the  farmer  turned 
away,  walked  through  the  little  yard  out  into 
the  road,  got  into  his  wagon,  which  waited 
there,  and  with  a  grim  smile  drove  on  to  the 
village. 

When  he  was  out  of  sight,  Hester  went  into 


HESTER'S  DOWER.  17 

the  house,  and,  though  she  knew  that  her  hus- 
band had  never  made  a  will,  searched  in  every 
possible  and  impossible  place  where  one  might  be 
hid.  After  this  fruitless  task  was  done,  she  put 
on  her  bonnet  and  walked  to  the  village.  The 
day  was  sultry,  the  air  was  hot,  but  her  heart 
was  hotter  still.  She  stopped  and  told  her 
story  to  Mose  Almy's  wife,  whom  she  asked  to 
go  back  to  the  house  she  had  left,  lest  the  man 
should  come  to  make  an  inventory,  and  find 
it  unguarded.  Mrs.  Almy,  full  of  sympathy, 
willingly  left  her  house  in  frightful  disorder, 
and  her  seven  small  children  gloriously  happy 
in  the  dirt,  and  departed  for  Hester's  cottage. 

The  widow  went  to  Mr.  Burgess,  the  village 
lawyer,  and  related  her  grievance. 

"  You  can't  help  yourself,"  said  he.  "  The 
law  is  on  their  side." 

She  twisted  a  fold  of  her  gown  in  her  hand 
a  moment.  "  Will  you  come  back  with  me," 
she  said  at  last,  "  an'  see  that  there  ain't  no 
cheatin'  done  this  afternoon  ?  " 

They  found  Mose  Almy's  wife  standing 
in  the  dooryard,  gesticulating  furiously,  and 
screaming  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  Jeremiah 
Razee  and  the  officer  were  confronting  her  dog- 
gedly. 

"  You  sha'n't  come  in  here,  neither  on  ye," 
shrieked  Mrs.  Almy,  — "  not  till  Hester  gets 


18  HESTER'S  DOWER. 

here !     You  're  nothin'  but  a  couple  of  mean, 
sneakin'  thieves,  both  on  ye !  " 

Jeremiah  turned  to  Mr.  Burgess,  as  he  en- 
tered the  yard  with  Hester ;  but  before  he  could 
speak  she  walked  by  them  all,  flung  open  the 
house  door,  and  called  to  them  to  come  in.  She 
followed  them  round,  as  they  went  from  room 
to  room.  She  opened  every  chest  and  drawer. 
She  verified  every  memorandum  that  the  officer 
made,  and  finally  dismissed  him  with  bitter  po- 
liteness. 

"  He  's  only  hired,"  she  said ;  then  turning  to 
Jeremiah,  with  blazing  eyes,  "  but  between  you 
'n'  me  the  account  ain't  settled  yet." 

"  No,"  said  the  farmer,  "  it  ain't.  John 
Bates  is  the  man  I  spoke  of  to  you  this  mornin', 
as  wantin'  to  hire  the  place.  He  's  concluded 
that  two  thirds  of  the  house  will  do  for  him. 
His  family  ain't  large,  an'  he  '11  move  in  next 
week,  an'  you  kin  live  in  the  other  part  without 
pay  in'  no  rent.  There  's  six  rooms  in  the  house. 
You  kin  have  any  two  you  like." 

Mr.  Almy  gasped  with  amazement,  and  Mr. 
Burgess  said,  "  I  think  you  're  rather  stretching 
your  authority." 

"  We  '11  see,"  answered  Jeremiah,  putting  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  "  You  ain't  the  only  law- 
yer in  the  county.  Any  way,  she  owes  me  'n' 
Jabez  rent  for  every  day  she  stays  here  'n'  keeps 
the  house  empty." 


HESTERS  DOWER.  19 

"  Where  is  Jabez  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Burgess. 

Jeremiah  looked  a  little  embarrassed,  and 
Hester  said  quietly,  "  I  guess  he  was  ashamed 
to  come.  It  takes  such  as  him  I "  and  she  pointed 
at  Jeremiah,  who  fell  back  slightly  cowed. 

"  The  widow  has  a  right  to  stay  for  a  time 
without  paying  rent,"  said  Mr.  Burgess. 

Jeremiah  looked  up,  surprised,  and  the  law- 
yer explained  to  him  that  he  could  not  carry 
out  his  plans  for  some  months  yet.  Mrs.  Almy 
uttered  a  cry  of  triumph,  but  Hester  stood  in 
unmoved  silence,  till  the  farmer,  somewhat  dis- 
comfited, took  his  leave.  When  he  had  gone, 
Hester  looked  at  Mr.  Burgess  and  asked  simply, 
"  Will  you  tell  me  how  it  is  ?  I  want  to  under- 
stand all  about  it,  and  how  it  comes  that  I  don't 
own  the  land  I  bought,  nor  the  house  I  built." 

The  lawyer  went  over  the  legal  details  in  a 
painstaking  manner,  and  dwelt  at  length  on  the 
one  mercy  the  law  granted  her,  that  she  might 
stay  in  the  house  unquestioned  for  some  time 
yet. 

"But  after  that  I  owe  him  rent  for  every 
day  ?  "  she  asked.  He  assented,  and  she  said, 
"Thank  you.  That  '11  do.  I  understand  now. 
I  '11  pay  you,  Mr.  Burgess,  when  I  've  earned 
some  money." 

"  It  is  no  matter,"  he  said.  "  I  wish  I  could 
do  more  for  you." 


20  HESTER'S  DOWER. 

Then  he  too  went  away,  and  Mrs.  Almy 
sought  to  console  Hester,  offering  to  stay  all 
night,  and  let  her  spouse  and  offspring  shift  for 
themselves  as  best  they  might. 

"  I  'd  rather  stay  alone,  please,"  was  Hester's 
reply ;  and  gently  thanking  her  for  all  her  kind- 
ness, she  let  the  woman  go.  In  the  same  quiet 
way  she  met  and  dismissed  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bur- 
rill,  when  they  came  later  on  an  errand  of  sym- 
pathy. When  they  too  had  gone,  she  sat  down 
a  little  while  in  the  kitchen.  From  that  room 
she  went  into  the  tiny  sitting-room,  and  thence 
to  her  own  bedroom.  In  each  she  stayed  a  few 
minutes,  sitting  quite  motionless,  and  all  the  time 
she  seemed  to  see  Shubael  moving  about  before 
her,  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do.  After  a  time 
she  dragged  out  from  her  room  an  old  chest  that 
had  been  her  husband's.  She  had  difficulty  in 
getting  it  through  the  doors,  and  she  remem- 
bered how  she  and  Shubael  had  tugged  at  it  to- 
gether to  bring  it  in.  She  persevered,  and 
pulled  it  out  of  the  house,  through  the  yard, 
and  across  the  road.  Then  she  went  back,  gath- 
ered together  Shubael's  clothing,  a  few  books, 
some  papers  on  which  he  had  written  his  ill- 
spelt  verses,  and  a  few  pieces  of  china.  This 
incongruous  collection,  with  some  of  her  own 
clothes,  she  carried  and  put  in  the  chest.  She 
shut  down  the  lid  of  the  box  and  nailed  it  fast. 


HESTER'S  DOWER.  21 

Next,  she  rolled  and  corded  the  mats,  and 
dragged  them  and  some  of  the  lighter  furniture 
out.  She  took  the  tall  clock  to  pieces,  and 
carefully  conveyed  that  also  across  the  road. 
After  this  she  stood  still,  and  sobbed  once  or 
twice.  It  was  nearly  morning  now,  and  Hes- 
ter's motions  were  a  little  hurried,  as  she  went 
back  into  the  house,  and  tied  up  a  bundle  of 
her  linen  and  blankets.  She  went  into  the 
kitchen,  and  looked  round  on  the  things  which 
were  left. 

"  I  guess,"  she  said  aloud,  resting  her  hands 
on  her  hips,  —  "I  guess  I  've  left  a  full  half  in 
value  here." 

Then  she  brought  from  the  woodshed  a  quan- 
tity of  small  wood,  of  which  she  made  two  great 
heaps,  one  on  the  kitchen  floor,  and  the  other 
in  the  sitting-room.  She  emptied  round  them 
a  barrel  of  corn-cobs,  and  strewed  about  a  quan- 
tity of  shavings.  She  next  took  a  burning  stick 
from  the  fireplace,  where  she  had  been  careful 
to  keep  alive  a  fire,  carried  it  to  the  sitting-room 
door,  and  flung  it  in  upon  the  pile  of  light  wood. 
With  another  brand,  she  deliberately  lighted 
the  kindlings  on  the  kitchen  floor.  Then,  draw- 
ing her  skirts  close  around  her,  she  went  out  of 
the  door,  and  closed  it  behind  her.  She  crossed 
the  road,  and  sat  down  on  Shubael's  chest.  A 
red  glow  shone  through  the  kitchen  window, 


22  HESTER'S  DOWER. 

and  a  fainter  light  came  from  the  other  room. 
She  stared  steadily  till  all  the  house  was  lighted. 
It  was  many  minutes  before  a  flame  leaped  from 
the  roof,  but  till  she  saw  it  she  did  not  turn  her 
eyes  away.  Then  she  covered  her  face,  and 
waited,  while  the  sun  rose  before  her  in  the 
east,  and  sent  his  beams  across  the  flames. 

Ten  minutes  after  sunrise  Jeremiah  and  Ja- 
bez  Razee  came  running  up  the  road.  Hester, 
in  her  black  dress,  sat  quietly,  with  her  house- 
hold goods  around  her. 

"  How  did  it  ketch  ? "  screamed  Jeremiah, 
while  still  afar  off. 

Hester  was  silent  till  the  brothers  were  quite 
near,  and  then  answered,  "  I  set  it  on  fire.  Shall 
we  settle  up  accounts  now,  Mr.  Razee  ?  " 

"  You  set  it  on  fire  !  "  he  cried.  "  But  who 
saved  these  things  ?  " 

"  I  brought  out  my  half  before  I  lighted  it," 
said  Hester. 

Jeremiah  swore.  Jabez,  who  was  a  church 
member,  uttered  a  more  pious  ejaculation. 

"  I  will  settle  with  you ! "  said  Jeremiah, 
shaking  his  fist  in  the  woman's  face.  She  an- 
swered with  a  disdainful  look,  and  the  two  men 
sat  down  sullenly  near  Hester,  and  gazed  at  the 
flames,  till  in  a  few  minutes  a  troop  of  neigh- 
bors arrived  on  the  scene ;  Mose  Almy's  wife  in 
front,  and  the  Burrills  not  far  behind. 


HESTERS  DOWER.  23 

Jeremiah  then  rose,  and  started  for  the  vil- 
lage. In  an  hour  he  came  back  with  the  con- 
stable. Hester  was  still  in  the  road,  surrounded 
by  her  friends.  To  the  consternation  of  the 
crowd,  she  was  formally  arrested  for  arson. 
She  had  not  foreseen  this  consequence  of  her 
act,  but  instantly  perceiving  the  situation,  she 
rose  calmly  to  follow  the  officer. 

"  Take  care  of  them  things,"  she  said  quietly 
to  Mrs.  Almy.  "  You  can  give  'em  store-room 
while  I  'm  gone,  can't  you  ?  And  don't  you 
never  let  Jeremiah  Razee  lay  his  finger  on  'em." 

Some  women  began  to  cry,  and  Mr.  Burrill 
stepped  up  to  Jeremiah,  and  said  fiercely, 
"  You  're  the  meanest  critter  I  ever  see  ! " 

"  That 's  my  lookout,"  answered  Jeremiah. 
"  It 's  the  law." 

"May  be  it  is  the  law,"  said  Mr.  Burrill, 
"  that  a  woman's  own  property  don't  belong  to 
her ;  but  as  men  are  all  sinners,  I  s'pose  it 's 
nigh  abaout  as  easy  for  'em  to  sin  makin'  laws 
as  any  other  way." 

Hester  was  taken  to  the  county  jail  in  the 
city,  twelve  miles  off,  in  due  time  was  brought 
to  trial,  and  was  sentenced  to  imprisonment  for 
two  years.  Some  of  her  old  neighbors  wanted 
to  get  her  pardoned  ;  but  they  were  simple  coun- 
try people,  and  hardly  knew  how  to  approach 
the  state  magnates,  so  nothing  effectual  was 


24  HESTER'S  DOWER. 

done,  and  she  was  allowed  to  serve  out  her 
dreary  sentence. 

Jeremiah  Razee,  thus  left  to  taste  the  sweets 
of  vengeance,  found  them  less  sweet  than  he 
had  anticipated.  His  neighbors  looked  coldly 
on  him.  His  unsocial  heart  could  have  borne 
that,  but  there  was  one  thing  that  grew  difficult 
for  him  to  bear.  Work  as  hard  as  he  could, 
early  and  late,  busy  his  mind  as  he  would,  cal- 
culating profits,  he  could  not  shut  out  from  his 
eyes  the  sight  of  Hester  as  he  had  last  seen  her, 
in  her  widow's  dress,  a  prisoner  at  the  bar,  un- 
der conviction.  Her  stern,  pallid  face  rose  with 
the  dawn  and  looked  at  him  ;  and  the  sun,  sink- 
ing while  the  old  man  still  toiled  on  his  farm, 
left  behind  a  trail  of  accusing  light  which 
showed  that  changed  countenance  to  him.  How 
changed !  He  remembered  the  dark-eyed  child 
whose  sunny  ways  had  charmed  even  his  mo- 
rose nature.  He  drove  back  and  forth  over  the 
country  roads,  as  business  called  him  here  and 
there,  and  memories  started  up  at  the  top  of 
every  hill,  in  every  valley,  under  the  shade  of 
the  old  trees  :  memories  of  a  handsome,  happy 
girl,  who  had  walked  in  the  sunshine  till  he  had 
spoiled  her  life ;  memories,  too,  of  a  timid, 
shrinking  lad  with  beseeching  eyes,  whose  man- 
hood had  withered  away  under  his  contempt. 
Once  the  old  farmer  had  occasion  to  go  to  the 


HESTER'S  DOWER.  25 

city,  and  was  forced  to  pass  the  jail.  He  shud- 
dered as  he  hurried  by.  In  that  jail,  a  dis- 
graced outcast,  labored  Hester,  whom  he  had 
known  as  a  little  child ;  a  convict  now,  because 
she  had  resented  the  law  which  gave  to  her  en- 
emy the  fruits  of  her  life's  toil  and  patience. 
Jeremiah  drove  hard  all  the  way  home.  The 
next  day  he  astonished  Jabez  by  telling  him 
that  he  was  going  over  the  line  to  visit  the 
Massachusetts  branch  of  the  family. 

He  went,  and  in  two  weeks  returned,  to  his 
brother's  still  greater  astonishment,  with  one  of 
their  second  cousins  as  his  wife.  She  was  a  tall, 
bony,  hard-featured  woman  of  forty,  who  spoke 
her  mind  freely  on  any  point,  and,  having  thus 
relieved  it,  went  her  way  untroubled.  When 
she  heard  Hester's  story,  which  she  had  not 
known  till  after  she  was  married,  she  told  her 
husband  emphatically  that  he  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself,  and  then  never  gave  the 
matter  another  serious  thought.  Jeremiah, 
however,  found  that  marriage  had  not  driven 
that  haunting  face  from  his  mind,  and  he  was 
still  conscious  of  a  force  stirring  within  him 
that  made  him  less  satisfied  than  of  yore  in  con- 
templating his  cattle  and  his  crops.  After  a 
time  his  wife  gave  birth  to  a  child,  and  died  in 
the  struggle.  Jeremiah  was  smitten  with  ter- 
ror and  grief.  He  had  not  a  particle  of  senti- 


26  HESTERS  DOWER. 

ment  for  his  wife  ;  he  had  married  her  hoping 
to  distract  his  mind  from  thoughts  of  Hester, 
but  he  felt  as  though  her  death  were  a  judg- 
ment upon  him. 

He  went  to  the  bed,  looked  at  his  baby,  and 
then  sat  down,  and  two  tears  squeezed  their  way 
out  of  his  eyes. 

"  I  never  thought  Jeremiah  'd  feel  anybody's 
death  like  he  feels  Sairy's,"  said  Jabez  to  Mose 
Almy.  Jabez  was  much  surprised,  but  he  was 
more  surprised,  as  the  days  passed,  to  perceive 
that  the  old  man  took  to  muttering  to  himself, 
as  he  walked  feebly  about  the  house,  and  that 
he  did  not  return  to  his  farm  work.  He  held 
the  baby  for  hours,  and  Jabez  looked  on  con- 
founded. Once  the  mystified  brother  heard 
Jeremiah  murmur  to  the  child,  "  Ef  you  was  a 
little  girl,  —  ef  you  'd  ben  a  girl  now  "  — 

Jabez  walked  away,  and  told  Mr.  Burrill,  who 
chanced  to  be  at  the  farm,  that  Jeremiah  was 
"  all  breakin'  up." 

But  as  the  months  rolled  away,  Jeremiah 
grew  stronger,  and  crawled  out  to  do  a  little  of 
his  accustomed  work.  His  only  real  interest 
however  was  in  the  baby.  Except  that  once, 
when  he  lamented  that  it  was  not  a  girl,  he 
never  seemed  to  see  anything  that  was  not  per- 
fect about  the  child.  He  cared  for  it  himself, 
neglecting  any  other  labor  for  this  one.  He 
called  it  always  "  Baby." 


HESTER'S  DOWER.  27 

"  Why  don't  you  gin  it  a  name  ?  "  asked 
Jabez. 

"  I  ain't  got  no  name  for  it,"  replied  Jere- 
miah. 

When  the  time  of  her  sentence  was  over, 
Hester  came  from  her  prison.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Burrill  went  for  her  on  the  day  of  her  release, 
and  brought  her  home.  They  reached  the  jail 
early  in  the  morning,  so  as  to  get  her  back  be- 
fore noon.  They  carried  her  garments  in  which 
to  array  herself,  but  were  shocked  to  see  how 
stony  and  white  she  looked  in  the  black  gown 
they  had  brought.  At  her  request  they  took 
her  to  Mose  Almy's. 

Mrs.  Almy  bustled  about  hospitably,  laugh- 
ing and  crying  by  turns.  She  told  all  the 
country  gossip,  and  proudly  showed  her  newest 
baby. 

"  Ellen,"  she  said,  "  after  Mose's  sister  that 
died,  —  jest  two  weeks  younger  'n  Jeremiah 
Razee's  boy.  They  do  say,  Hester,  that  the  old 
man  thinks  a  sight  of  that  baby.  Queer,  ain't 
it?  Takes  care  on  him  nights,  jest  like  an 
old  woman.  It  seems  as  ef  he  was  comin'  to 
his  nateral  feelin's  at  last." 

"  Comin'  out  on  'em,  I  should  say,"  said 
Hester,  with  more  weariness  than  vehemence 
in  her  tones.  "  All  his  nateral  feelin's  was 
hateful  ones." 


28  HESTER'S  DOWER. 

Towards  night  the  widow  wandered  forth 
restlessly.  She  had  not  taken  a  walk  for  two 
years.  It  was  autumn  again,  four  years  since 
she  and  Shubael  had  gathered  the  red  oak 
leaves  with  hands  that  clasped  among  their 
spoils.  The  glory  that  she  saw  hurt  her.  The 
land  was  brimming  full  of  sunshine,  and  its 
beauty  mocked  her.  The  garnered  joy  of  the 
harvest  basked  on  the  hill  slopes,  —  what  had 
been  the  harvest  of  her  life  ?  She  had  reaped 
a  crop  she  had  not  sown,  and  the  hazy  smile  of 
the  Indian  summer  was  not  for  her. 

On  she  went,  till  she  came  to  a  pasture  of 
the  Razee  farm,  close  beside  the  little  inclosure 
where  her  home  had  been.  She  leaned  against 
the  wall,  and  with  yearning  eyes  looked  over. 
The  blood  rushed  to  her  heart  and  stopped  its 
beating.  She  saw  a  man  running  from  an  infu- 
riated bull.  She  saw  other  men  rising  upon  her 
sight  from  all  quarters,  rushing  to  the  rescue. 
She  saw  the  man  fall ;  she  saw  the  animal  reach 
him  ;  she  heard  sharp  reports.  The  bull  rolled 
over  in  wounded  agony.  The  pursuers  caught 
up  the  fallen  man.  They  bore  him  through 
the  field.  Hester  climbed  the  wall  and  follow- 
ing soon  reached  them.  They  halted  at  last 
under  an  old  apple-tree  close  to  the  wall  that 
separated  the  pasture  from  the  lot  where  the 
ashes  of  her  home  still  strewed  the  ground. 


HESTER'S  DOWER.  29 

She  had  no  time  to  think.  She  was  clearly 
conscious  of  nothing,  but  the  impulse  to  help, 
till  she  found  herself  sitting  under  the  apple 
laden  boughs,  the  sunset  light  all  about  her, 
and  Jeremiah  Razee's  head  lying  in  her  lap. 
They  dared  not  move  him  further.  He  moaned 
as  he  lay  there.  He  was  fearfully  mangled.  If 
she  stirred,  he  groaned  with  pain.  The  men 
bound  his  mangled  limbs.  The  horror  of  it 
all  overcame  Hester.  She  held  herself  very 
still.  Some  one  went  for  a  doctor.  There  was 
reason  to  fear  some  internal  injury  besides  the 
external  wounds.  A  sort  of  animal  sympathy 
for  pain  swelled  the  hysterical  passion  in  the 
woman's  heart.  She  put  out  her  hand  and 
smoothed  the  old  man's  pallid  forehead.  At 
her  touch,  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  as  he  saw 
her  a  look  of  terror  came  into  them,  as  though 
he  had  seen  a  ghost.  He  tried  to  move. 

"  Lay  still,  lay  still,"  she  said ;  "  you  musn't 
stir.  We  're  doin'  all  we  can  for  you." 

"  Is  it  really  you  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  frightened 
whisper. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Don't  let  nothin'  worrit 
you  ;  jest  keep  quiet." 

"  Be  you  —  out  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  I  'm  —  glad,"  he  said,  with  a  long  sigh,  and 
closed  his  eyes.  Sometimes  he  writhed  with 


30  HESTER'S  DOWER. 

pain,  but  the  greater  part  of  the  time  he  lay 
motionless,  almost  as  if  he  were  asleep.  His 
attendants  worked  over  him,  trying  to  ascertain 
the  extent  of  his  injuries  and  relieve  them 
somewhat  before  the  doctor  came. 

At  last  he  looked  up  again  at  Hester's  face. 
It  was  flushed,  and  her  emotions  gave  it  a  softer 
aspect  than  he  had  seen  it  wear  for  long  years. 
He  spoke  in  a  weak  but  determined  voice,  evi- 
dently meaning  to  have  his  say,  in  defiance  of 
pain  and  ebbing  strength  ;  but  he  paused  often, 
and  shut  back  the  groans  with  set  lips. 

"It  ain't  no  use;  I'm  done  for.  Hester, 
it 's  jest  the  same  as  it  allus  was  with  me.  I 
ain't  no  hand  to  ax  anybody's  pardon,  but  I 
never  see  the  woman  as  I  thought  fit  to  stan' 
beside  you.  When  you  was  a  little  red-cheeked 
gal,  —  cheeks  like  apples,  —  an'  when  you  was 
a  woman  grown  an'  could  n't  abide  me,  jest  the 
same;  an'  I  hated  you  because  I  liked  you, 
cur'us  as  it  seems.  I  'm  pretty  tough.  I  can 
stand  a  good  deal.  But  I  guess  it  was  wuss  for 
me  nor  you,  at  last.  It  was  thet  what  broke  me 
down.  Nothin'  but  thet.  No,  don't  stop  me, 
—  I  'm  most  done.  Hester,  there  's  that  baby 
of  mine.  Somehow,  a  baby  takes  hold  on  ye 
tight  with  his  little  fists.  I  'd  rather  you  'd 
bring  him  up  nor  anybody  else.  Will  ye  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will,"  she  cried. 


HESTER'S  DOWER.  31 

He  smiled  slowly.  "  You  kin  call  him  Shu- 
bael,"  he  said ;  "  then  he  won't  never  put  yo  in 
mind  o'  me." 

She  sobbed.  "I'll  love  him  as  if  he  was 
Sh abaci's  son." 

A  little  later,  Jeremiah  Razee,  there,  in  sight 
of  those  memorial  ashes,  died  peacefully,  his 
head  on  Hester's  knees,  his  white  hair  floating 
over  her  mourning  dress. 


SAINT  OR  SINNER. 


IT  worried  Hannah  Dean  not  to  find  her  sis- 
ter  at  the  door  when  the  factory  "  let  out "  one 
pleasant  June  evening.  Hetty  and  she  worked 
through  the  day  in  different  rooms,  but  they  al- 
ways walked  home  together  at  night.  Hannah 
was  the  more  troubled  because  for  the  past  week 
or  two  Hetty  had  acted  strangely.  At  home 
she  followed  Hannah  from  room  to  room,  and 
would  not  be  left  alone.  At  the  mill,  on  the 
contrary,  she  avoided  her  sister,  and  spent  all 
her  spare  time  idling  with  Frank  Cotter,  a 
young  machinist  whom  Hannah  did  not  fancy. 
This  evening,  when  Hetty  was  missing,  Han- 
nah feared  that  she  had  gone  somewhere  with 
Frank,  and  took  her  homeward  path,  thinking 
in  a  troubled  mood  of  the  pretty,  wayward  girl, 
and  of  their  father's  death,  which  had  occurred 
two  months  before.  But  Tom  Furness  joined 
her,  and  his  cheeriness  drove  away  her  care. 
He  persuaded  her  to  go  rowing  with  him  on  the 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  83 

river,  after  supper ;  but  the  mother,  Mrs.  Dean, 
when  she  heard  the  plan,  objected  strenuously, 
because  it  was  the  prayer-meeting  night,  and 
Hannah  ought  to  go  to  church.  Hannah's 
pleading  that  she  had  been  to  prayer-meetings 
all  her  life  and  had  never  been  in  a  boat  on  the 
river  would  have  availed  little  had  not  Tom 
come  to  the  rescue  and  persisted  in  taking  her ; 
while  the  widow,  who  had  not  seemed  to  notice 
Hetty's  absence,  marched  sullenly  off  to  church, 
taking  her  third  child,  Patty,  a  weak-minded 
girl,  of  whom  she  was  very  fond.  Tom  and 
Hannah  spent  a  happy  hour,  rowing  through 
the  twilight.  He  coaxed  her  to  sing,  and  all 
the  squalid  anxieties  of  her  life  seemed  to  drop 
away  into  the  deep,  sweet  shadows  that  fell 
over  the  water. 

At  last  he  drew  his  boat  up  on  the  shore,  and 
they  silently  landed  ;  and,  though  they  knew  it 
not,  their  enchanted  dream  of  youth  and  love 
was  over.  She  never  sang  again. 

They  walked  together  down  the  river-side 
till  they  reached  the  church.  There  were  lights 
in  the  vestry  and  the  meeting  was  still  in  ses- 
sion. 

"  Let  us  go  in,"  said  Hannah ;  and  Tom  con- 
sented. 

They  separated  at  the  door,  and  Tom  sat 
down  among  the  men,  while  she  crossed  over  to 


34  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

the  women's  side  of  the  house.  She  looked 
around  for  Hetty  without  finding  her,  but  soon 
distinguished  her  mother  at  the  end  of  one  of 
the  seats.  A  lamp  hung  suspended  from  the 
ceiling  over  the  old  woman's  head,  and  the  yel- 
low, flickering  light  fell  full  on  her  hard  old 
face,  so  dark  and  rigid,  intense  and  pinched. 
Her  hands  were  gloveless,  and  lay  clasped  right 
upon  her  knee.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  and  her 
lips  moved  in  response  to  the  prayer  of  Deacon 
Dudley,  a  white-haired  old  man  who  knelt  near 
her.  Patty's  pretty,  imbecile  face  was  close  to 
her  mother's  shoulder. 

When  the  meeting  was  done  Tom  met  Han- 
nah at  the  gate.  "  Come  with  me ;  I  've  some- 
thing to  tell  you,"  he  said. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked,  in  vague  alarm. 

"  Hetty  had  trouble  with  the  overseer  to-day, 
and  he  's  turned  her  out  of  the  mill.  She  's 
been  slack  at  her  work,  and  I  guess  she  's  been 
away  from  it  more  than  you  knew." 

"With  Frank  Cotter ?" 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  But  where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"At  Sue  Flint's." 

Annoyed  at  hearing  this,  since  Frank  Cotter 
boarded  at  Mrs.  Flint's,  Hannah  went  straight 
there  with  Tom. 

She  knocked  at  the  kitchen  door,  and  with- 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  35 

out  waiting  for  a  response  opened  it  and  walked 
in  with  neighborly  freedom. 

Mrs.  Flint,  a  raw-boned,  weary  -  looking 
woman,  sat  on  one  side  of  the  stove,  and  her 
husband,  Jabez  Flint,  sat  on  the  other.  His 
mouth  was  drawn  up  and  open  on  one  side. 
His  nose  seemed  to  have  forgotten  which  way 
it  had  originally  meant  to  go,  and  at  last,  in 
sheer  despair,  it  had  given  up  trying  to  be  a 
nose  and  had  come  to  an  end.  His  eyes  stared 
vacantly  in  opposite  directions.  His  forehead 
slanted  back  to  the  unkempt  hair,  which  strag- 
gled forward  to  meet  it  in  a  vain  attempt  to  give 
some  harmony  to  the  face.  He  smoked  a  short, 
black  pipe,  and  he  did  not  move  when  Tom  and 
Hannah  entered.  Mrs.  Flint,  however,  rose, 
greeted  them,  and  pushed  forward  chairs.  Tom 
sat  down,  but  Hannah  only  steadied  herself  by 
the  back  of  hers,  and  asked,  "Is  Hetty  here? " 

"Yes;  she  and  Sue  have  just  gone  up-stairs 
to  bed." 

Hannah  breathed  more  freely  to  learn  that 
Hetty  had  not  gone  out  with  Frank  Cotter. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  Hetty,"  she  said.  "  I  'vo 
just  heard  about  her  trouble." 

"  Her  trouble,  eh !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Flint, 
sharply. 

"  Oh,  did  n't  she  tell  you  ?  Some  trouble 
with  the  overseer  that  worried  her,"  said  Han- 


36  BAINT  OR  SINNER. 

nab,  annoyed  to  find  that  she  had  revealed  what 
Hetty  had  kept  secret. 

"  Like  enough  she  told  Sue,"  said  Mrs.  Flint, 
"  but  I  did  n't  take  no  notice  when  she  come 
in ;  I  was  busy  tendin'  to  him,"  indicating  Ja- 
bez  with  her  thumb. 

"  Have  you  been  sick  to-day  ?  "  asked  Tom 
of  the  old  man. 

Mrs.  Flint  answered  for  her  husband :  "  A 
dretf ul  spell ;  he  ain't  quite  come  out  of  it  yet. 
I  don't  know,  sometimes,  what  we  shall  do." 

No  more  was  said  for  a  minute,  and  then 
Hannah  proposed  going  up  for  Hetty,  and  Mrs. 
Flint  consented.  Shortly  afterwards  the  two 
girls  came  down-stairs  together,  and  Hannah 
said  quietly,  "  I  've  coaxed  Hetty  to  go  home 
with  me,  and  we  '11  tell  mother  in  the  morning. 
Hetty 's  afraid  mother  will  be  vexed,  but  I 
guess  not." 

This  speech  was  much  braver  than  Hannah's 
heart.  Tom  looked  at  Hetty,  and  Was  startled 
to  see  how  white  the  pretty  face  was. 

They  all  walked  home  silently,  and  Hannah 
insisted  that  Tom  should  leave  them  at  the  gate. 

"You  are  not  fair,  Hannah,"  said  Tom. 
"  You  are  always  shutting  me  out  when  you  are 
in  trouble.  Never  mind,  I  '11  come  in  some 
day."  He  suddenly  stopped,  kissed  her,  and 
turned  away. 


BAINT  OR  SINNER.  37 

"  Hetty,"  began  Hannah,  bending  to  her  sis- 
ter a  face  whose  blush  the  darkness  hid,  "  now 
tell  me  all  about  it.  Was  it  about "  — 

"  No,  it  was  n't  about  Frank,"  broke  in  Hetty. 
"And  yet  it  was  too,  I  suppose.  Any  way,  I 
was  n't  at  my  work  regular,  and  there  was  a 
fuss  to-day,  and  the  boss  just  turned  me  off." 
She  stopped,  and  even  the  night  which  con- 
cealed Hannah's  blush  could  not  hide  her  look 
of  terror.  "  Ob,  I  don't  dare  go  in." 

"  Hetty,  Hetty,  my  poor  girl,  what  have  you 
done?" 

"  I  have  n't  done  anything." 

"  Then  what  are  you  afraid  of  ?  " 

•"  Oh,  I  'm  afraid,  I  'm  afraid  !  "  clinging  des- 
perately to  her  sister. 

"  Come  round  the  house,"  said  Hannah,  "  and 
we  '11  go  up  the  back  stairs,  and  nobody  need 
see  us." 

"  She  '11  come  up  in  the  night !  "  cried  Hetty, 
catching  her  breath  hysterically. 

"  Who  '11  come  up  ?  "  asked  Hannah,  trem- 
bling. 

"  Mother,  mother,"  whispered  Hetty ;  "  she  '11 
poison  me  too." 

And  then,  suddenly,  both  girls  sank  upon 
the  ground,  and  stared  at  each  other  with 
white  faces.  Neither  moved,  while  Hetty,  in 
low,  wild  whispers,  went  on :  "  The  night  that 


88  SAINT  OR  SINN£S. 

father  died,  I  saw  her  go  to  the  closet  and  get 
a  bottle  out  of  that  little  cupboard  she  always 
keeps  locked,  and  I  saw  her  pour  something  into 
a  cup  of  tea,  and  I  did  n't  think  anything.  Of 
course,  I  did  n't.  But  she  come  and  woke  him 
up.  I  was  just  at  the  door,  where  I  was  stand- 
ing still,  so  as  not  to  wake  him,  and  she  did  n't 
see  me.  She  gave  him  the  tea,  and  somehow  I 
felt  frightened  then.  You  know  how  he  grew 
worse  that  evening,  and  the  doctors  did  n't 
know  what  was  the  matter.  Oh,  and  after  giv- 
ing him  the  tea,  she  went  to  the  window  and 
opened  it.  The  stars  were  very  bright,  and  she 
threw  something  out,  —  I  did  n't  see  what. 
But  a  week  ago  I  was  round  there,  and  I  found 
the  bottle,  and  it  had  some  white  powder  in  it, 
and  it  was  marked  '  Arsenic.' " 

"  You  don't  know  it  was  that  she  threw  out." 

"  No,  but  I  'm  pretty  sure,  and  I  'm  afraid  of 
her." 

"Show  me  the  bottle." 

Hetty  rose  slowly,  and  Hannah  followed,  stag- 
gering after  her  round  the  house. 

Hetty  poked  about  in  the  grass,  where  she 
had  dropped  the  bottle  on  the  spot  in  which  she 
had  found  it.  Hannah  crouched  against  the 
house.  Her  hand  trailed  in  some  high  clover 
growing  there,  and  the  dew  on  it  felt  like  blood. 

"  There ! "  said  Hetty  at  last,  holding  up  a 


SAINT   OR  SINNER.  39 

small  phial.  Hannah  took  it,  put  it  in  her 
pocket,  and  rising  led  the  way  into  the  house. 

Mrs.  Dean  and  Patty  had  gone  to  bed  and 
left  a  lamp  burning  on  the  kitchen  table.  Han- 
nah fastened  up  the  doors  and  windows,  and  as 
she  did  so  Mrs.  Dean  called  out  from  her  room, 
the  one  under  whose  window  they  had  just 
found  the  bottle,  "  This  is  a  pretty  time  of 
night  to  come  in !  Is  Hetty  there  ?  " 

Hetty  shrank  and  shivered,  but  Hannah  an- 
swered, "  Yes,"  took  up  the  lamp,  and  mounted 
the  stairs,  while  Hetty  followed.  When  they 
had  reached  the  room,  Hannah  closed  the  door 
behind  them,  took  out  the  bottle,  and  read  the 
fatal  label. 

Mrs.  Dean  was  at  this  time  about  sixty  years 
old.  She  could  neither  read  nor  write.  She 
had  been  born  in  one  of  the  worst  neighborhoods 
of  the  State,  —  a  squalid  collection  of  some  half 
dozen  huts  in  the  country,  where  the  men  and 
women  herded  together  like  cattle.  She  had 
drifted  out  of  these  surroundings,  and,  rather 
late  in  life,  had  married  the  son  of  a  farmer  of 
much  better  antecedents  than  her  own.  Her 
husband  was  a  hard-working,  inefficient  man, 
and  all  the  worldly  prosperity  of  the  family  was 
due  to  her  thrift.  Mr.  Dean  had  possessed  a 
certain  feeble-minded  sensitiveness  of  organiza- 
tion. Repelled  by  his  wife's  stern  character, 


40  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

unable  to  share  in  the  peculiar  religious  fervor 
which  she  always  manifested,  he  had  sought 
refuge  in  the  affection  of  Hannah  and  Hetty ; 
Patty  always  seemed  to  inspire  him  with  re- 
pugnance and  awe.  There  was  nothing  un- 
pleasant about  the  girl.  She  would  sit  for 
hours  crooning  songs  in  a  low,  sweet  voice,  ap- 
parently seeing  and  hearing  nothing.  But  she 
did  see  and  hear,  and  would  sometimes  show 
that  she  had  been  keenly  observing  everything 
during  the  whole  time  she  had  been  quiet ;  and 
it  was  probably  this  odd  mingling  of  imbecility 
and  shrewdness  which  produced  in  her  father  a 
species  of  nervous  terror. 

Mrs.  Dean,  on  the  contrary,  manifested  for 
Patty  the  only  real  tenderness  she  displayed  in 
her  family.  For  her  only  would  she  relax  the 
stingy  economy  with  which  she  presided  over  the 
household. 

Mrs.  Dean  had  fretted  much,  at  first,  over 
the  expenses  which  her  husband's  illness  in- 
volved. His  health  had  been  failing  a  long 
time,  and  for  two  years  before  his  death  he 
had  not  worked  at  all.  Hannah,  lying  awake 
all  this  dreadful  night,  with  the  bottle  labeled 
"  Arsenic  "  hidden  away  among  her  clothes,  re- 
membered how  the  fretfulness  had  subsided  as 
the  months  rolled  on,  and  how  a  certain  angry 
but  silent  acquiescence  had  marked  her  moth- 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  41 

er's  reception  of  every  fresh  call  for  medicine  or 
medical  attendance. 

Hannah's  thoughts  suddenly  reverted,  at  this 
moment,  to  a  time  when  she  was  a  child.  An 
old  man  and  his  wife  had  lived  some  years  in 
Mrs.  Dean's  family,  with  the  understanding  that 
they  were  to  be  cared  for  during  life,  and  at 
their  death  Mrs.  Dean  was  to  receive  the  small 
sura  of  money  they  would  leave  behind. 

Hannah  remembered  that  once  when  the  old 
woman,  Betsey  Jordan,  had  shown,  with  child- 
ish glee,  some  cloth  which  she  had  bought  for 
a  new  cloak,  Mrs.  Dean  had  turned  away, 
grumbling,  "  If  you  are  n't  more  saving  of  your 
money  than  that,  precious  little  will  them  get 
that  feeds  you." 

It  was  just  a  week  after  this  that,  in  the  early 
morning,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jordan  were  found  both 
dead  in  their  bed.  Hannah  remembered  her 
father's  bending  over  the  still,  old  faces,  and 
saying,  gently  and  sadly,  — 

"  They  went  together,  any  way ;  but  it  's 
sudden,  and  makes  the  home  feel  lonesome." 

The  look  on  her  mother's  face  as  he  spoke 
came  even  now  before  Hannah's  eyes,  and 
she  understood  it  at  last.  These  people  were 
cousins  of  Torn  Furness's  mother.  And  Hannah, 
working  slowly  through  this  horrible  mesh  of 
circumstance,  came  to  a  new  point  to  be  con- 


42  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

sidered,  a  new  agony  to  be  borne.  Tom  Fur- 
ness  !  She  clutched  the  bedclothes  and  set  her 
teeth.  Tom  Furness  !  She  raised  herself  and 
stared  at  Hetty,  whose  hysterical  sobbings  had 
long  since  subsided  into  sleep.  For  one  mo- 
ment, Hannah  felt  as  if  she  could  kill  the  girl 
for  putting  this  fearful  thing  between  Tom  and 
herself.  Only  for  a  moment;  the  next,  she 
felt  a  horror  of  herself,  which  set  her  thoughts 
striving  to  find  the  path  of  her  duty.  Some- 
how, at  last,  through  the  black  maze,  it  came 
clear  to  her  that  she  was  her  mother's  child, 
and  must  not  breathe  suspicion  against  her. 
Perhaps  the  suspicion  was  false,  but  that  possi- 
bility only  barred  her  the  more  from  telling  it. 
Tom  and  she  must  go  apart  forever.  Patty 
must  never  know.  Hetty's  life  must  be  freed 
from  this  dark  shadow  ;  in  atonement,  perhaps, 
for  her  own  late  anger  with  her. 

For  the  rest,  one  duty  lay  clear  before  Han- 
nah: "Never  to  let  it  happen  again."  She 
said  these  words  over  and  over,  as  if  they  might 
be  a  spell  against  fate.  She  would  watch  her 
mother  till  she  died,  so  that  the  horrible  im- 
pulse of  crime,  the  avarice  which  prompted  the 
impulse,  should  never  be  free  to  work  again. 
She  must  ever  keep  in  mind  that  human  life 
might  depend  on  her  silent  vigilance,  and  that 
the  price  of  her  silence  might  be  blood.  And 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  43 

would  she  not  also  be  guilty  of  that  blood  ? 
Tom  must  go.  Into  that  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death  which  her  life  entered  she  could  drag 
no  lover. 

It  rained  Sunday  morning.  Hannah  did  not 
dress  for  church.  The  other  girls  made  ready 
to  go  with  their  mother.  Hetty  looked  pale 
and  frightened,  and  avoided  Hannah's  eye. 
She  too  was  meditating  a  desperate  resolve. 
Hannah  sat  sullen  and  still,  and  made  no  move- 
ment to  accompany  the  little  party.  Her  mother 
rebuked  her  sharply,  bnt  she  answered  that 
her  head  ached,  and  they  left  her  sitting  in 
the  kitchen.  In  a  few  minutes  Tom  burst  in 
at  the  door,  shaking  the  rain  off  his  coat  and 
tossing  his  wet  hat  in  before  him.  "  I  watched 
the  folks  go  in  to  meeting,"  he  said,  "  and  saw 
you  were  not  there.  What  's  the  matter  ?  Is 
it  Hetty  ?  " 

She  stood  silent,  and  so  obviously  agitated 
that  he  took  both  her  hands  in  alarm.  "  No, 
no  !  "  she  cried,  "  you  must  n't  think  any  harm 
of  Hetty.  She's  a  good  girl.  Indeed  she  is. 
Think  what  you  like  of  me  —  of  —  the  rest  of 
us."  She  trembled,  feeling  how  helpless  she 
was,  shut  in  the  house  alone  with  the  man  she 
loved.  If  they  were  only  out,  —  out  some- 
where in  the  pitiless  storm,  and  she  could  run 
from  him  forever,  through  the  rain  and  wind, 


44  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

and  hide  herself  in  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
earth  !  But  she  could  not  flee.  She  must  stand 
still  and  drive  him  forth  under  the  angry  sky. 
"  Oh,  Tom,  Tom,  go !  For  God's  sake  go,  and 
don't  ask  me  anything !  " 

"  Hannah  1 " 

"  Yes,  you  are  angry.  I  knew  you  would  be 
angry,  but  it  is  all  for  your  own  sake." 

"  Good  heavens  !    What  is  all  for  my  sake  ?  " 

"  That  you  must  go.  Tom,  dear  Tom,  it  is 
forever.  You  must  marry  some  one  else.  You 
must  never  marry  me.  Oh,  don't  kill  me  by 
staying  here  any  longer !  " 

"  Tell  me,"  he  cried,  as  she  sank  sobbing  on 
the  floor  before  him,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  Do 
you  want  me  to  leave  you,  so  you  may  marry 
another  man  ?  " 

"  Me  marry  another  man  !  "  She  sprang  up 
as  she  spoke.  "  Who  dared  say  I  would  marry 
another  man  ?  No,  it  is  you  who  must  marry." 

*'  Wait  till  I  Ve  asked  leave  to  do  so,"  he 
said,  sullenly.  "  I  might  take  you  at  your 
word." 

She  shivered,  but  answered  bravely,  "  God 
grant  you  may.  Look!  I  will  swear  to  you 
never  to  marry  anybody  else  in  the  world,  — 
but  I  can't  marry  you." 

"  What 's  your  oath  worth  ?  You  're  break- 
ing your  promise  to  marry  me." 


SAINT  OR  SIJME&.  45 

"  Oh,  Tom,  Tom,"  she  moaned,  "  can't  we 
part  in  peace  ?  I  have  loved  you  all  my  life  ; 
I  cannot  quarrel  with  you,  but  we  must  part. 
Speak  kindly  to  me  first.  You  '11  have  plenty 
to  think  of  and  to  be  glad  about  after  you  've 
left  me,  but  I  '11  have  nothing  pleasant  to  hope 
for,  or  to  remember,  —  but  just  the  thought  of 
you.  Give  me  one  kind  word  to  live  on  all  my 
life  long.  I  must  liv.e,  Tom.  I  've  something 
to  do.  Sometime,  dear,  if  you  and  I  live  long 
enough,  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  don't  know 
when  I  may  be  free  to  speak.  I  may  die  first, 
but  if  I  live,  I  '11  find  you  wherever  you  are 
and  tell  you.  I  hope  you  '11  marry,  Tom.  It 
won't  matter,  then,  when  I  tell  my  secret.  I'll 
not  come  hankering  for  your  love.  You  need 
not  fear  that,  when  you  sit  by  your  wife,  in 
your  own  house.  I  '11  only  come  to  say  why  I 
sent  you  off  when  we  both  were  young,  and 
you  and  your  wife  will  be  glad  and  thank  me 
for  it." 

He  put  his  arms  around  her,  and  said,  "  Tell 
me  your  secret  now." 

She  started  from  him.  "  No ;  if  you  came  to 
me  every  day  in  the  year,  I  'd  never  tell  you. 
It  is  n't  my  secret." 

"  Well,  marry  me,  and  I  '11  never  ask  you 
what  it  is." 

"  Oh,  Tom,  such  a  thing  could  never  be  be- 


46  SAINT  OR  SINNER 

tween  husband  and  wife.  Kiss  me  once,  Tom. 
God  bless  you.  Go  now." 

It  was  her  hand  that  opened  the  door.  He 
staggered  out  into  the  rain. 

The  day  passed,  as  Sundays  usually  did  at 
Mrs.  Dean's,  with  dreary  formality.  In  the 
evening,  Hannah  went  to  church  with  the 
others.  When  coming  out,  she  saw  Hetty 
stop  and  speak  with  Frank  Cotter,  but  it  did 
not  trouble  her.  It  seemed  as  if  nothing  would 
trouble  her  now. 

But  it  might  have  troubled  her,  if  she  had 
heard  what  Hetty  said  that  night,  "  Oh  Frank, 
dear  Frank,  if  you  like  me,  I  should  think 
you  'd  pity  me.  You  don't  want  me  to  go  on 
this  way,  do  you?  It  don't  make  you  happy, 
does  it,  that  I  can't  eat,  nor  I  can't  sleep? 
There 's  nobody  but  you  as  can  help  me,  — 
an'  if  you  won't,  what 's  goin'  to  become  of  me  ? 
Oh,  why  ain't  I  got  real  friends  like  other  folks 
has!" 

Here  she  broke  down  sobbing,  and  Frank 
kissed  her.  Though  this  comforted  her  a  good 
deal,  she  still  shivered  as  she  clung  to  him. 

"  Come  along,"  he  said  then,  "  I  was  n't 
thinkin'  of  gettin'  married  yet  awhile.  Oh 
Lord,  no !  But  I  like  you,  an'  I  ain't  goin' 
back  on  you  if  you  're  havin'  a  hard  time  of 
it." 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  47 

He  helped  her  over  the  low  roadside  wall,  by 
which  they  stood.  She  tore  her  gown  among 
the  blackberry  vines  which  grew  about  the 
stones,  but  she  did  not  notice  anything,  but  the 
gentleness  of  his  grasping  arms.  The  stars 
shone  sweetly  down,  as  she  lifted  her  face  to 
his,  when  they  stood  together  in  the  seclusion 
of  the  field.  She  did  not  think  about  it,  but 
she  felt  that  his  eyes  were  shining  more  sweetly 
than  those  stars.  Hope  had  come  to  her  heart. 
She  began  to  believe  that  relief  was  close  at 
hand. 

"  Now  tell  me  all  about  it,"  he  said. 


Monday  morning  dawned  in  beauty  and 
brightness.  The  mill  bells  rang  out  through 
the  clear  air.  Hannah  asked  Hetty  if  she 
should  tell  their  mother  of  her  dismissal  from 
work.  The  girl  answered  shortly,  "  No,  I  'm 
going  down  to  the  mill.  May  be  I  can  get  a 
place." 

They  went  together  to  the  factory,  and  sep- 
arated at  the  door. 

A  little  before  noon  Patty  came  wildly  into 
the  room  where  Hannah  worked,  and  with  agi- 
tation that  almost  made  her  face  intelligent  told 
her  that  Hetty  had  run  away  with  Frank  Cot- 


48  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

ter  that  forenoon,  and  that  they  were  already 
married. 

"  It  is  just  as  well,"  answered  Hannah  quiet- 
ly, turning  back  to  her  work. 

"  Oh,"  sobbed  Patty,  "  mother  is  taking  on 
dreadful.  Do  come  home." 

Hannah  rapidly  arranged  with  the  overseer, 
and  left  the  mill  with  her  sister.  On  the  way 
Patty  told  her  all  she  knew  about  the  matter. 

Frank  and  Hetty  were  now  at  Mrs.  Flint's. 
They  had  come  there  an  hour  before,  and  had 
sent  word  to  Mrs.  Dean  that  they  had  been  to 
the  next  town  and  had  been  married  about 
nine  o'clock  that  morning. 

The  girls  found  Mrs.  Dean  seated  in  the 
kitchen  crying,  and  as  Patty  went  up  to  her  she 
sobbed  aloud  :  "  Oh,  Patty,  I  '11  have  to  go  out 
scrubbing,  in  my  old  age,  to  get  you  a  morsel 
to  eat,  now  Hetty  has  gone." 

"  Are  you  going  over  to  see  Hetty  ?  "  Han- 
nah asked. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Dean.  Hannah  went  up- 
stairs, packed  up  some  of  Hetty's  things,  and 
brought  the  bundle  down.  The  old  woman  took 
it  from  her  daughter,  opened  it,  and  curiously 
examined  its  contents.  "  Where  's  her  gold 
beads  ?  "  demanded  the  mother. 

"  I  think  likely  she  wore  them,"  said  Hannah. 

Mrs.  Dean  muttered  between  her  teeth.    She 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  49 

turned  over  the  things,  picked  out  some  stock- 
ings, a  new  dress,  two  collars,  and  some  of  the 
better  underclothing ;  then  rolling  up  the  poor 
remains  of  Hetty's  slender  wardrobe,  she  said, 
"  You  may  take  them  'ere  to  her,  but  she  shan't 
have  these  ;  they  cost  too  much." 

"  Oh,  mother,"  said  Hannah,  her  heart  full 
of  shame  and  trouble,  "Hetty  bought  them 
with  money  she  earned  herself.  And  for  her 
to  go  as  a  wife  to  Frank  Cotter  without  any 
decent  clothes !  It  would  disgrace  us  all." 

"  She  's  disgraced  us  already,"  said  Mrs. 
Dean,  with  a  low  chuckle.  "  Let  Frank  Cot- 
ter dress  his  own  wife,  —  I  can't  afford  to.  I 
don't  want  to  die  in  the  poor-house.  It 's  likely 
she  '11  come  to  it  yet.  ^Tou  may  tell  her  she 
need  n't  look  to  me  to  keep  her  out.  Patty 
shall  have  the  things." 

Hannah  tied  up  the  pitiful  bundle,  took  it, 
and  went  out  into  the  yard.  She  felt  dizzy, 
and  sat  down  for  a  few  minutes  on  a  stone, 
just  inside  the  gate.  Hearing  quick  steps, 
she  raised  her  head,  and  saw  Patty  coming 
with  Hetty's  dress  and  the  other  clothes.  A 
happy  smile  lighted  the  imbecile  girl's  face, 
and  she  sang  softly  as  she  came  along. 

"  Mother 's  queer,"  she  said,  with  a  low 
laugh ;  "  Hannah  must  n't  mind.  Patty  don't 
want  the  things.  Take  'em  to  Hetty.  Poor 
4 


50  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

Hetty  I  Take  'em  to  Hetty,"  she  said  again, 
as  Hannah  hesitated ;  "  mother  won't  know." 
She  laughed  gleefully.  "  Hetty  shall  have 
them  all.  Poor  Hannah  won't  be  sorry  any 
more." 

Poor  Hannah  indeed !  She  knew  it  would 
not  do  to  take  the  things.  Mrs.  Dean  would 
be  sure  to  miss  them,  and  what  if  she  were  to 
be  angry  with  Patty  I  what  if  her  affection  for 
her  imbecile  child  should  lessen  ! 

Hannah  picked  out  one  or  two  trifling  arti- 
cles from  the  bundle,  assured  Patty  that  Hetty 
would  not  want  the  others,  thanked  her  warm- 
ly, and  went  rapidly  away  to  Mrs.  Flint's, 

She  found  Frank  and  Hetty  sitting  in  soli- 
tary and  rather  uncomfortable  state  in  Mrs. 
Flint's  parlor.  He  came  to  meet  her  as  she 
entered  the  room.  Hetty  hung  back  shame- 
faced. 

"  Do  you  think  this  is  a  bad  business  ?  "  asked 
Frank,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  hope  it  is  not." 

Hetty  ran  forward  at  this,  and  kissed  her 
sister  warmly,  murmuring  praises  of  Frank. 
Hannah  gave  her  the  bundle,  and  told  her 
what  Patty  had  done,  but  softened  the  account 
of  their  mother's  part  in  the  transaction. 
Hetty  listened  sweetly,  and  said  she  was  glad 
Patty  was  to  have  the  dress ;  but  she  did  not 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  51 

speak  of  her  mother,  and  soon  broke  away  and 
ran  up-stairs  with  her  clothes.  Hannah  looked 
at  Frfnk. 

"  You  '11  be  kind  to  her,  and,"  with  hesita- 
tion, "  you  '11  go  away  from  New  Bridge  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  we  are  going  to  Or- 
rinsville  to-night.  I  shall  look  for  work  there, 
where  I  have  friends." 

"  That  is  best." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Frank  speaking  deliber- 
ately ;  "  I  'm  sorry  for  you  and  Patty,  but 
Hetty  can't  stand  what  some  could.  She  asked 
me  to  take  her  away." 

"Asked  you!" 

"  Oh,  she  was  right  enough.  I  'd  given  her 
reason  to  think  I  'd  marry  her,  and  when  I  'd 
got  her  into  a  scrape  about  her  work  I  was 
bound  to  stand  by  her.  I  like  her,  besides. 
She  's  a  good  girl,  and  I  could  n't  leave  her  to 
be  scared  to  death  at  home."  Frank  knew ! 
Hannah's  heart  beat  heavily  as  he  continued : 
"  I  always  liked  you,  Hannah,  even  though  you 
did  n't  like  me.  Hetty  thinks  you  'd  better 
marry  soon,  and  take  Patty  and  come  and  live 
near  us  in  Orrinsville."  His  tone  was  truly 
brotherly.  For  an  instant,  a  vision  of  heaven 
danced  before  Hannah's  eyes. 

"  No,"  she  said  in  a  moment,  "  I  must  stay. 
I  must  see  to  it  all,  —  watch  things,  you  know. 


52  SAINT  OR  81NNER. 

I  've  broken  with  Tom.  He  does  n't  know. 
He  never  shall  know.  I  don't  believe  it  ever 
happened,  but  anyway  I  must  see  that  it  never 
happens  again.  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Hannah,  you  're  the  right  sort  of  woman," 
cried  Frank  ;  but  he  felt  sure  that  Hannah  did 
believe  it. 

Mrs.  Flint  and  Sue  and  Hetty  all  came  in 
just  then,  and  Mrs.  Flint  proposed  that  she  and 
Hannah  should  go  and  bring  Patty  there,  and 
should,  if  possible,  persuade  Mrs.  Dean  to  come. 
Neither  Hetty  nor  Frank  felt  any  desire  to  have 
Mrs.  Dean's  blessing  rest  upon  their  marriage 
day,  and  Hannah  would  gladly  have  kept  these 
last  few  moments  free  from  the  shadow  of  her 
mother's  presence;  but  they  all  felt  that  it 
would  be  unwise  to  oppose  her  coming. 

Mrs.  Dean  was  easily  induced  to  let  Patty 
go,  and  the  girl  darted  gleefully  off  after  her 
bonnet.  When  she  was  gone,  Mrs.  Dean  asked, 
with  an  apparent  effort  to  be  unconcerned  and 
neighborly,  "  How  is  Mr.  Flint  ?  " 

"  Dretful  poorly,"  answered  the  unfortunate 
wife,  and,  eager  to  propitiate  the  widow,  she 
spoke  with  less  reserve  than  usual  of  her  hus- 
band's illness,  and  told  how  he  had  two  "  spells  " 
the  last  two  days,  and  how  he  had  fallen,  in  one 
of  them,  against  the  table  which  was  set  for  din- 
ner, and  upset  it,  breaking  the  crockery  and 
spilling  soup  all  over  her  new  rag  carpet. 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  53 

*'  I  would  n't  have  a  man  round  doing  like 
that,"  said  Mrs.  Dean,  with  a  scowl. 

"Why,  what  would  you  do? " 

"  Oh,  there 's  ways.  I  'd  still  him  down, 
somehow." 

Hannah  grew  pale  in  her  corner,  and  Mrs. 
Flint  opened  her  eyes  in  wonder.  Just  then 
Patty  came  in,  flushed  and  eager,  and  Mrs. 
Flint  was  recalled  to  her  mission,  and  began  to 
urge  Mrs.  Dean  to  go  with  them. 

"No,  I  won't,"  said  she,  shutting  her  thin 
lips  tight.  There  was  an  ominous  gleam  in  her 
eyes,  and  Patty  cried  out,  "  Come  away !  mother 
won't  care,  when  we  come  back." 


II. 

Tom  waylaid  Hannah  twice  on  her  way  home 
from  the  mill,  but  she  repelled  his  advances. 
Sometimes,  afterward,  she  caught  glimpses  of 
him  about  the  village.  Always  she  wished  he 
would  come  and  speak  to  her.  Always  she 
shivered  with  fear  lest  he  should  come.  After 
a  few  days,  however,  he  left  the  village.  His 
mother  said  he  had  gone  to  work  in  some  town 
in  Connecticut,  where  a  good  place  was  offered 
him,  and,  as  she  said  it,  she  glanced  reproach- 
fully at  Hannah.  The  blood  settled  heavily 
around  the  girl's  heart,  but  she  made  no  sign 


54  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

and  spoke  no  word.  The  dread  she  had  felt, 
while  her  lover  remained  in  the  village,  lest  he 
should  sometime  persuade  her  to  yield  to  his 
entreaty  grew  into  a  remembered  bliss  when 
the  days  and  months  trailed  by,  and  she  sick- 
ened at  heart  to  know  that  he  would  try  no 
more  to  persuade  her.  He  did  not  come  back 
to  New  Bridge,  and  after  a  not  very  long  period 
Hannah  heard  that  he  was  married.  She  was 
left  to  count  the  interminable  days  like  sands 
upon  the  seashore.  The  years  passed,  till  the 
memory  of  her  love  ceased  to  torture  her,  but 
she  grew  very  still  at  heart,  and  felt  as  if  she 
must  walk  softly  evermore,  because  she  trod 
upon  a  grave. 

Patty  was  her  chief  comfort.  She  grew  very 
fond  of  her  after  Hetty  went  away.  She  often 
reflected  with  horror  that  it  might  be  that  she 
had  all  this  while  wronged  her  mother  with  her 
suspicion.  Then  she  would  try  to  draw  nearer 
to  the  widow's  close-locked  heart,  and  to  atone, 
by  some  dumb  service,  for  the  fearful  thing  she 
had  thought.  A  revulsion  of  feeling  was  sure 
to  follow,  and  she  grew  more  convinced,  year  by 
year,  that  her  mother  was  guilty.  Still,  noth- 
ing occurred  to  waken  her  dread  that,  in  some 
new  access  of  temptation,  Mrs.  Dean  might  re- 
peat the  crime,  and  a  wearing  monotony  of  pain, 
anxiety,  and  fear  that  was  not  quite  terror  dom- 
inated over  Hannah's  life. 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  55 

After  a  while  a  great  revival  swept  through 
the  village  and  roused  Hannah's  dormant  spirit. 
She  frequented  prayer-meetings,  and  would  fain 
have  joined  in  the  ecstasy  of  the  converted. 
One  evening,  a  wave  of  passionate  emotion 
rushed  over  her  soul  and  stirred  it  with  feelings 
she  had  never  known  before. 

Her  submission  to  fate,  though  uncomplain- 
ing, had  hitherto  been  dogged.  Now,  for  an 
instant,  she  felt  in  accord  even  with  the  Power 
that  had  crushed  her  life,  and  given  to  her,  an 
innocent  woman,  the  burden  of  guilt  to  bear. 
Christ,  too,  had  lived  and  died  for  sinners.  It 
was  permitted  unto  her  to  enter  into  that  great 
sacrifice,  to  partake  of  that  immeasurable  and 
holy  suffering.  Hannah's  heart  was  moved  by 
the  eternal  truth  underlying  the  dogmas  of  the- 
ology, —  that,  for  some  mysterious  reason,  the 
innocent  must  suffer  with  the  guilty.  She 
thrilled  with  consciousness  of  intimate  union 
with  Him  whose  death  on  Calvary  has  been  a 
type  of  that  mightier  vicarious  atonement  in 
which  the  sins  of  the  fathers  are  visited  upon 
the  children,  even  to  the  third  and  fourth  gen- 
eration. 

"  It 's  like  Christ,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  some- 
how, it 's  like  Christ  to  suffer  because  some  one 
else  has  done  wrong." 

And  Hannah  might  have  fallen  on  her  knees 


56  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

and  burst  out  into  the  wild,  incoherent  prayer 
in  which  her  comrades  indulged  at  these  meet- 
ings, but  that  just  then  she  turned  her  head  and 
saw  her  mother  on  her  knees  in  the  vestry  aisle. 
The.  old  woman's  eyes  were  closed,  her  bonnet 
fallen  back.  Her  hands  were  clasped,  her  lips 
moved,  and  her  body  swayed  slightly  to  and  fro. 

"She's  a  Christian,"  thought  Hannah,  and 
settled  back  in  her  seat. 

All  the  next  day,  as  Hannah  walked  back 
and  forth  between  her  looms,  the  machinery 
grumbled  a  steady  undertone  to  her  thoughts. 
This  daughter,  who  believed  her  mother  a  mur- 
deress, had  yet  never  attempted  to  decide 
whether  the  strange  perversity  and  distortion 
of  that  mother's  nature  did  or  did  not  admit  a 
genuine  element  of  sincere,  religious  feeling. 
But  if  it  did,  what  was  religion,  and  of  what 
good  was  it  ? 

Hannah  remembered  her  father,  who  had 
"died  in  his  sins,"  as  Mrs.  Dean  had  been 
known  pleasantly  to  describe  her  husband's  con- 
dition of  soul  at  the  time  of  his  death.  Mr. 
Dean  had  never  been  converted.  A  death-bed 
conversion  might  have  saved  his  soul.  His 
wife's  deed  had  prevented  that  possibility. 
What  remained  to  him  ?  Was  it  his  fault  that 
time  had  not  been  granted  him? 

Mrs.  Dean  might  live  to  feel  a  genuine  peni- 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  57 

tence.  Indeed,  it  was  not  clear  to  Hannah's 
mind,  clouded  as  it  was  by  a  crude  theology, 
that  her  mother  would  not  be  saved  under  any 
circumstances,  since  she  called  on  Christ's  great 
name.  Nor  did  this  daughter  wish  to  imagine 
an  eternal  retribution  awaiting  even  her  guilty 
mother. 

When  Hannah  went  home  that  night,  she 
found  Deacon  Dudley  sitting  by  the  kitchen 
fire.  He  smiled  at  her  in  a  sickly  way.  Her 
mother  set  her  thin  old  mouth  firmly  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  said,  "  Hannah,  I  'm  married  to 
Mr.  Dudley." 

The  girl  stood  still  and  stared. 

"  May  be,"  broke  in  the  old  man,  "  you  don't 
fancy  the  idea  of  a  step-father,  but  I  guess  we  '11 
get  on  fust-rate.  The  old  woman  and  me  got 
married  to-day.  It  don't  take  much  fuss  to  get 
anybody  married  in  this  State,  and  we  did  n't 
want  no  fuss.  I  've  been  mighty  lonesome  since 
my  fust  wife  died,  an'  Mary,  she  's  got  her  hus- 
band an'  children  to  look  arter,  though  I  don't 
mean  to  say  nothin'  against  Mary.  She  's  a 
good  woman,  but  I  've  always  thought  a  sight 
of  your  ma.  I  do  think,  Hannah,  she  is  the 
smartest  woman  in  New  Bridge ;  an'  such  a  nice 
place  as  she  's  got,  an'  a  smart  girl  like  you  in 
the  mill,  an'  Patty  "  —  But  here  some  wiser 
instinct  dawned  upon  him ;  he  forbore  to  state 


58  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

how  much  of  a  disadvantage  he  considered  Patty 
in  this  matrimonial  arrangement,  and  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  smile  meant  to  express  senti- 
ment, "  An'  so  you  see,  though  Mary  Pierce  is 
a  nice,  good  woman,  an'  plenty  willing  to  have 
her  old  father  stay  with  her,  my  feelin's  seemed 
to  draw  me  here." 

"  You  'd  better  shet  up  now  about  your  feel- 
in's," remarked  his  bride,  amiably,  "  an'  draw 
a  pail  of  water  for  your  tea." 

The  old  man  got  up  hurriedly,  and  taking  the 
empty  pail  tottered  out  of  the  kitchen. 

"  I  thought,"  said  the  mother,  "  as  it  would 
be  handy  to  have  a  man  about  the  house.  I 
guess  he  '11  rather  more  than  earn  his  board." 

Hannah  did  not  answer,  but  took  off  her  bon- 
net and  shawl,  and  sat  down  by  the  table. 

In  a  moment  Mr.  Dudley  was  heard  crying 
for  help,  and  Hannah  went  hastily  out  to  the 
well,  where  she  found  the  old  man  struggling 
in  vain  with  the  bucket.  It  was  evident  that 
he  was  too  feeble  to  draw  the  water.  Hannah 
took  his  place  and  performed  the  task,  while  he 
stood  by  simpering  out  apologies. 

At  supper,  Mr.  Dudley  pushed  his  plate  over 
to  his  wife,  and  asked  her  to  cut  up  the  meat. 
Hannah  glanced  up  at  him,  and  saw  that  his 
hands  were  trembling  violently.  She  looked 
over  at  her  mother,  and  perceived  a  heavy  frown 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  59 

on  the  old  woman's  brow  as  she  complied  with 
her  husband's  request. 

Hannah  hurried  off  to  the  mill  the  next 
morning.  She  carried  her  dinner,  and  did  not 
return  till  night.  She  looked  haggard  enough 
as  she  came  into  the  kitchen,  where  Deacon 
Dudley  sat  smoking  a  pipe. 

Her  mind  had  been  busy  all  day  with  harass- 
ing thoughts.  She  remembered  that  Mr.  Dud- 
ley was  reputed  to  own  three  or  four  hundred 
dollars.  She  could  not  doubt  her  mother's 
motive  in  marrying  him.  She  had  noticed  the 
evening  before  that  he  was  far  more  feeble  than 
her  mother  could  have  supposed.  He  would, 
very  likely,  soon  become  a  burden  to  his  new 
wife.  What  would  happen  then,  and  what 
could  she,  Hannah,  do  ?  She  was  away  from 
home  twelve  hours  a  day ;  what  things  might 
happen  in  twelve  hours?  The  mill  wheels 
ground  out  this  question  in  her  ears.  The  looms 
and  all  the  flying  machinery  screeched  it  at  her, 
as  they  kept  up  their  diabolic  dance  before 
her  eyes.  Ought  she  to  expose  her  mother  ? 
Was  there  really  anything  to  expose  ? 

She  looked  so  sallow  as  she  came  into  the 
kitchen  that  Mr.  Dudley,  lifting  his  head  and 
removing  his  pipe,  said,  "  Hannah,  why  don't 
you  take  some  of  them  little  white  powders, 
them  arsenic  powders,  the  other  girls  take  to 


60  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

clear  their  skins  out  ?  You  're  mighty  dark 
complected." 

Hannah  grew  ghastly  white,  and  went  through 
the  room  and  up-stairs  without  speaking. 

At  supper,  Mr.  Dudley  shoved  his  plate  over 
to  Hannah,  and  asked  her  to  cut  up  his  meat. 
Mrs.  Dudley  contracted  her  brows,  and  after  a 
little  while  remarked  to  her  spouse  that  his  ap- 
petite seemed  good.  He  smiled  as  he  answered 
that  he  generally  relished  his  food. 

Two  weeks  passed,  and  one  day  Mrs.  Dudley 
announced  her  intention  of  visiting  relatives  in 
Troy,  a  town  some  twenty  miles  distant.  Mr. 
Dudley  and  Patty  were  to  go  with  her.  Han- 
nah, she  said,  might,  while  they  were  gone,  take 
her  meals  at  Mrs.  Flint's.  Hannah  was  amazed 
and  troubled  by  this  arrangement.  Her  mother 
had  never  made  a  visit  before  since  she  could 
remember. 

"  I  think  I  '11  go,  too,"  said  Hannah. 

"No,  you  won't,"  replied  Mrs.  Dudley, 
shortly.  "I  can't  have  you  foolin'  away  all 
your  time.  Me  an'  the  old  man  '11  go,  and 
Patty,  because  her  board  to  home  would  cost 
suthin;  but  you  can  stay  an'  'arn  your  own 
livin'." 

Hannah,  nevertheless,  resolved  to  go,  and 
made  her  preparations  accordingly.  When  the 
morning  of  the  intended  departure  came,  Mrs. 


8AINT  OR  SINNER.  61 

Dudley  discovered  her  daughter's  plans,  and 
seemed  so  angry  that  a  great  terror  fell  upon 
the  unhappy  girl,  and  she  dared  not  go,  lest 
she  should  only  precipitate  some  dreaded  catas- 
trophe. Perhaps  she  feared  that  she  should 
draw  down  doom  on  her  own  head.  At  any  rate, 
courage  failed,  and  she  watched  the  others  de- 
part to  take  the  cars,  making  no  further  at- 
tempt to  accompany  them.  Mr.  Dudley  turned 
after  he  had  entered  the  road,  and  looking  back 
to  Hannah,  who  stood  leaning  on  the  gate, 
smiled  and  called  out  pleasantly  that  he  wished 
she  were  going  with  them. 

Hannah  went  back  into  the  house  and  put 
on  her  shawl.  She  had  come  to  a  stern  deter- 
mination as  those  three  figures  had  vanished 
from  her  sight.  She  would  go  instantly  to  Mrs. 
Pierce,  Mr.  Dudley's  married  daughter,  confide 
to  her  the  whole  horrible  story,  and  put  the 
matter  in  her  hands.  She  could  go  after  her 
father,  if  she  wished,  and  bring  him  home,  and 
henceforth  take  care  of  him  herself.  Perhaps 
she  could  reason  away  Hannah's  fears.  Per- 
haps she  would  tell  her  that  it  was  all  a  delu- 
sion. Of  course,  it  must  be  delusion.  What 
proof  was  it  that  Mr.  Dean  had  died  of  poison 
that  his  daughters  had  found  a  bottle  of  arsenic 
under  his  chamber  window  ?  Bottles  were  com- 
mon, and  arsenic  was  used  to  kill  rats,  —  and 


62  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

was  n't  it  used  also  for  the  complexion  ?  Did 
n't  Mr.  Dudley  say  so  ?  Hannah  knew  one  or 
two  persons  who  took  it  in  small  doses,  as  a 
stimulant.  Mr.  Dudley  had  a  strangely  white 
complexion.  Hannah  wondered  if  he  used  it. 
If  he  died,  and  people  thought  it  was  poison 
that  killed  him,  of  course  it  was  because  he 
took  those  powders.  Hannah  was  sure  he  did. 
Oh,  it  had  all  been  a  delusion,  a  hideous  dream, 
and  she  had  dreamed  it  all  her  life.  No,  once 
she  had  not  dreamed  any  such  thing :  that  was 
when  she  rowed  on  the  river  with  Tom  Fur- 
ness,  and  sang  to  him.  She  had  not  seen  Tom 
for  seven  years.  He  was  married.  He  had 
forgotten  her.  And  but  for  this  foolish,  wicked 
dream  of  horror  she  might  have  been  his  wife 
all  this  time.  Her  mother  would  not  do  such 
a  thing.  Her  mother  was  a  good  woman.  Her 
mother  belonged  to  the  church.  It  was  she, 
Hannah's  self,  who  was  very  bad  indeed  to  have 
thought  of  such  a  thing.  She  would  go  and 
tell  Mrs.  Pierce,  and  Mrs.  Pierce  would  tell 
her  that  it  could  not  be  true.  She  was  so  bad, 
she  must  be  a  lost  soul.  She  was  sure  she 
would  go  to  hell  when  she  died.  She  doubted 
whether  hell  would  be  any  worse  than  this. 
She  was  n't  certain  but  she  was  in  hell  even 
now.  She  would  go  to  Mrs.  Pierce,  and  find 
out  where  she  was.  But  perhaps  Mrs.  Pierce 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  63 

would  believe  it  all.  Perhaps  her  mother  would 
be  arrested  and  hanged,  and  she  would  have 
done  it.  She  would  be  the  murderess  then. 
No,  she  would  not  go  to  Mrs.  Pierce  at  all ;  she 
would  go  to  the  river,  where  she  had  been  with 
Tom,  and  drown  herself  before  any  more  misery 
came  to  her.  But  would  that  save  Mr.  Dudley  ? 
Save  him  —  save  him  from  what  ?  She  did  n't 
know.  Where  was  Mr.  Dudley  ?  Who  was  he  ? 
Why  did  it  torture  her  so  to  think  of  Mr.  Dud- 
ley ?  Oh,  she  remembered  now.  He  was  her 
mother's  husband,  and  had  gone  away  with  her 
mother ;  and  she  must  find  Mrs.  Pierce  and 
tell  her  something.  She  had  forgotten  what 
she  was  to  tell  her,  but  she  should  recollect 
when  she  saw  her,  and  it  would  save  something. 
Where  was  Mrs.  Pierce? 

All  the  while  Hannah  went  rushing  round  the 
nearly  empty  village  streets,  with  her  brain  on 
fire.  She  could  not  find  Mrs.  Pierce's  house. 
Everything  looked  strange  to  her.  On  she 
wandered,  through  the  long  morning.  At  last, 
a  little  before  noon,  guided  by  some  blind  in- 
stinct, she  staggered  into  Mrs.  Flint's  yard  and 
dropped  by  the  door-step. 

They  found  her  there,  and  took  her  in.  She 
moaned  and  muttered  day  after  day,  but  they 
who  heard  her  could  distinguish  nothing  she 
said. 


64  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

They  wrote  to  Mrs.  Dudley,  and  she  came 
home  with  her  husband  and  Patty.  The  old 
man  was  not  well,  and  Hannah  could  not  be 
moved ;  so  Mrs.  Dudley's  time  was  divided  be- 
tween the  two  houses,  which  were  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  apart.  She  grumbled  a  good  deal  at 
this,  but  matters  grew  no  better,  since  the  sec- 
ond night  after  their  return  Mr.  Dudley  be- 
came very  ill.  His  wife  then  ceased  her  com- 
plaints. She  seemed  very  devoted  to  him.  She 
paid  Mrs.  Flint  to  take  the  whole  care  of  Han- 
nah, that  she  might  give  all  her  time  and 
strength  to  her  husband.  He  did  not  improve, 
however,  and  when,  two  days  later,  Hannah 
became  conscious,  Sue  Flint  told  her  that  her 
step-father  was  dead.  To  Sue's  astonishment, 
Hannah  gave  a  shriek  and  went  off  again  into 
delirium. 

Mr.  Dudley  had  lain  in  his  grave  perhaps 
two  weeks,  when  strange  rumors  began  to  cir- 
culate through  the  village.  Mrs.  Pierce  had 
somehow  had  suspicions  of  foul  play  awakened 
in  her  mind. 

One  day  she  called  at  Mrs.  Flint's.  Hannah 
had  crawled  down  into  the  kitchen  that  morn- 
ing, and  sat  there,  silent  and  wretched.  Mrs. 
Pierce,  as  she  came  in,  eyed  the  girl  sharply, 
and  Hannah,  heart  -  sick  and  feeling  sorely 
stricken  before  Deacon  Dudley's  daughter, 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  65 

dropped  her  eyes  to  the  floor,  and,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  rose,  and  walking  slowly  left  the 
room.  Mrs.  Flint  and  Mrs.  Pierce  both  felt 
her  departure  a  relief,  and  their  talk  soon 
turned  on  the  recent  death. 

"  Will  the  old  woman  have  his  money  ? " 
asked  the  hostess. 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Pierce, 
with  a  darkening  brow ;  "  I  don't  feel  very  well 
satisfied  about  my  father." 

"  Was  n't  she  kind  to  him  ?  " 

Mrs.  Pierce  was  silent.  Mrs.  Flint  continued, 
"  She 's  a  close-fisted  woman.  I  presume  she 
reckoned  on  his  money  when  she  married 
him." 

"  Yes,  and  when  he  died,"  said  Mrs.  Pierce, 
with  startling  emphasis.  "  I  lie  awake  nights 
and  think  how  he  died." 

"  Why,  but  he  was  an  old  man ;  it 's  the 
course  of  natur'  for  the  old  to  die." 

"  Some  things  are  in  the  course  of  nature, 
and  some  are  not,"  returned  the  visitor.  "  He 
was  always  worse  after  he'd  taken  medicine. 
She  did  n't  want  me  there,  I  could  see.  But 
I  saw  enough  to  know  that.  There  was  sedi- 
ment in  his  medicine.  I  saw  it  once  "  —  here 
she  checked  herself.  "  I  never  felt  my  father 
a  burden.  He  'd  better  have  stayed  with  me." 

"  Perhaps,"  suggested  Mrs.  Flint,  in   vague 

6 


66  SAINT  OR  8INNEB. 

horror,  of  what  she  knew  not,  "the  doctor 
did  n't  understand  the  case." 

"I  don't  think  he  did,"  answered  Mrs. 
Pierce. 

"  She  is  n't  over  -  patient,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Flint,  who  shrank  from  perceiving  any  hidden 
meaning  in  her  visitor's  remarks,  "  with  people 
who  can't  work  their  way.  She  's  always  hint- 
ing about  my  husband's  being  such  a  trial  to 
me ;  and  so  he  is,  but  I  suppose  the  Lord  sent 
him,  and  I  must  make  the  best  of  him." 

Whereat,  by  careful  manipulation,  Mrs.  Pierce 
drew  out  from  Mrs.  Flint  the  story  of  that 
strange  remark  of  the  widow  Dean's  about 
"  stilling  him  down." 

"  I  've  often  wondered  what  she  meant.  I 
suppose  she  thought  opium  or  laudanum  might 
be  good  for  him,"  added  the  much-tried  wife. 

Mr.  Dudley's  daughter  felt  a  cold  chill  run 
through  her  bones. 

Meanwhile,  that  other  daughter,  the  sus- 
pected widow's  child,  in  the  room  above,  was 
wearily  packing  her  few  things  to  go  back 
to  that  home  of  horror  and  of  sin.  She  felt 
by  instinct  that  Mrs.  Pierce's  suspicion  was 
aroused,  and  that  the  secret  sin  would  surely 
be  ferreted  out.  She  was  conscious  of  a  dreary 
willingness  that  it  should  be  so.  She  left  the 
Flints  that  day,  not  weeping  when  she  went, 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  67 

but  with  a  tearless  misery  in  her  eyes  which 
they  half  understood,  and  which  held  Sue  Flint 
firmly  to  her  defense  in  the  days  that  fol- 
lowed. 

The  village  was  soon  alive  with  rumor.  Han- 
nah heard  it  at  last,  with  set,  dogged  face.  She 
found  herself  under  a  ban.  The  mill  girls  fell 
back  when  she  entered  the  factory  door,  and 
waited  below,  while  she  climbed  the  winding 
stairs  alone  in  the  morning ;  and  they  crowded 
together  in  the  entries  at  night,  and  left  her  to 
go  down  the  dizzy  flights,  accompanied  only  by 
her  own  whirling  fancies. 

Whether  Mrs.  Dudley  was  herself  aware  of 
all  that  was  being  said,  no  mortal  ever  knew. 
She  kept  within  doors,  and  went  her  accus- 
tomed rounds,  only  avoiding  Hannah  a  little. 
Sue  Flint,  though  friendly  to  Hannah,  shared 
the  universal  suspicion  of  the  widow,  and  now 
told  that  on  the  night,  many  years  before, 
when  Hetty  had  taken  refuge  at  their  house, 
after  being  turned  out  of  the  mill,  the  girl  had 
sobbed  out  in  her  distress  that  she  was  afraid 
to  go  home,  lest  her  mother  should  poison  her. 

Mr.  Dudley's  body  was  taken  from  the  grave 
and  examined.  A  deadly  drug  was  found  in 
the  stomach.  The  afternoon  that  this  dis- 
covery was  announced,  two  police  officers  came 
from  the  neighboring  town  and  arrested  the 
widow. 


68  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

The  tidings  of  this  event  were  borne  to  Han- 
nah in  the  mill.  She  drew  her  shawl  over  her 
head  and  hurried  home,  where  she  found  a 
crowd  of  men,  women  and  children  standing  in 
the  yard  and  in  the  road  outside. 

"  Here  comes  Hannah  !  "  cried  a  small  boy, 
who  was  instantly  silenced  by  some  one. 

"  Are  they  going  to  take  Hannah  too  ?  "  an- 
other boy  asked,  as  that  unhappy  creature 
reached  the  gate. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  some  one  else,  "  that 
to-morrow  they  mean  to  take  up  old  Mr.  Dean's 
body,  and  see  what  he  died  of  ?  " 

Hannah  turned  and  faced  the  crowd.  None 
who  stood  there  ever  forgot  the  dingy,  labor- 
marked  figure,  the  white,  set  face  gleaming  out 
from  the  folds  of  the  dark  shawl  still  flecked 
with  cotton  from  the  mill,  or  the  cold,  hard 
voice  which  spoke. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  "  you  'd  better  dig  up 
all  the  graves  in  New  Bridge,  and  see  what 
your  fathers  died  of." 

It  was  a  luckless  speech,  and  it  turned  away 
from  Hannah  what  little  sympathy  had  already 
existed  for  her  in  the  village.  After  that,  peo- 
ple wondered  whether  she  were  not  an  accom- 
plice in  her  mother's  crime.  Poor  Hannah  had, 
in  her  half-distracted  brain,  often  wondered  the 
same  thing. 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  69 

After  speaking  to  the  crowd,  Hannah  walked 
quickly  into  the  house  and  found  her  mother 
perfectly  composed,  but  lowering  and  dark  of 
aspect.  She  was  gathering  together  a  few 
things  to  take  with  her.  Patty  lay  sobbing  on 
the  floor.  A  constable  stood  at  each  door. 
Hannah  assisted  her  mother,  and  when  all  was 
ready  offered  to  go  with  her.  Mrs.  Dudley  re- 
fused to  allow  her. 

When  the  widow  appeared  in  the  yard,  a 
neighbor,  Deacon  Burrill,  stepped  forward  and 
spoke  to  her.  "  I  'm  very  sorry,"  he  said,  "  but 
I  guess  it  '11  all  come  out  right,  and  we  '11  be 
glad  to  see  you  back  again." 

"For  forty  years,"  answered  the  widow, 
"  I  've  been  a  member  of  the  church  here,  and 
I  'm  as  innocent  as  a  babe  unborn." 

One  half-grown  girl  gave  a  hysterical  sob ; 
otherwise,  all  was  entirely  quiet  as  Mrs.  Dud- 
ley walked  through  the  crowded  yard.  Patty 
had  stayed  in  the  house.  Hannah  followed  her 
mother's  tottering  steps  to  the  covered  carriage, 
which  waited  in  the  road.  Deacon  Burrill 
helped  the  widow  to  enter.  The  constables  got 
in  after  her. 

The  carriage  drove  away,  and  the  deacon 
walked  with  Hannah  back  to  the  kitchen  door. 
She  would  not  let  him  enter  with  her,  and  when 
she  had  gone  in  herself  he  heard  her  lock  the 
door  behind  her. 


70  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

The  men  and  women  looked  angrily  at  him 
as  he  came  back  among  them,  and  some  of  the 
boys  hissed.  That  night  a  mob  of  lads  hung 
Deacon  Burrill  in  effigy  before  his  own  gate. 

The  next  day,  Mr.  Dean's  body  was  disin- 
terred, and  fearful  things  were  said,  describing 
what  was  found.  It  was  horrible  to  Hannah  to 
know  that  curious  hands  had  torn  open  that 
grave  and  rifled  it  of  its  hideous  secret.  She 
went  at  night  to  the  grave-yard,  and  groveled 
for  hours  over  the  mound,  which  had  been  has- 
tily piled  again,  and  smoothed  with  her  bare 
hands  the  carelessly  heaped  earth. 

The  trial  came  at  last.  Hannah  and  Patty 
sat,  through  it  all,  by  their  mother's  side.  Hetty 
did  not  come  into  the  court  room.  Hannah 
firmly  forbade  her,  and  she  was  only  too  willing 
to  escape  the  public  ignominy  of  being  seen 
there. 

"Keep  your  wife  away,"  said  Hannah  to 
Frank  Cotter.  "  Keep  away  yourself.  You 
can  do  no  good  there.  People  would  only  stare 
at  Hetty,  because  she  has  been  talked  about  in 
it,  you  know,  that  she  was  afraid  of  her  mother 
when  she  married  you.  And  when  she  read  in 
the  paper  that  mother  was  arrested,  she  cried 
aloud,  '  They  've  found  her  out  at  last ! '  and 
fainted.  That 's  told  all  over  New  Bridge.  Is 
it  true  ?  " 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  71 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"  She  'd  better  have  kept  her  thoughts  and 
her  faintings  to  herself,"  answered  Hannah, 
shortly ;  then,  softening  a  little,  she  added, 
"  She  was  never  good  at  keeping  secrets,  and 
this,  to  be  sure,  has  been  a  thing  to  burn  its 
way  out  of  a  closer  mouth  than  hers.  And  may 
be  it  would  have  been  better "  —  a  shadow 
came  over  her  face,  already  dark  with  care. 
She  paused,  and  said  no  more. 

The  trial  dragged  its  slow  length  out  for  three 
days,  and  was  finished.  The  jury  retired.  Out- 
cast and  abhorred  sat  the  prisoner  and  her  chil- 
dren before  the  bar.  This  was  the  end  of  Han- 
nah's long  endeavor  to  prevent  a  repetition  of 
her  mother's  crime,  —  to  sit  through  a  slow  half 
hour,  waiting  for  the  verdict.  She  had  kept 
the  secret,  and  blood  had  been  the  penalty  of 
her  silence.  Was  she  not  also  guilty  of  that 
blood?  Should  she  not  arise,  confess  her  sin 
before  men,  and  go  with  her  mother  to  meet  a 
common  doom  ?  The  inertia  of  her  New  Eng- 
land blood  held  her  still.  Passionate  emotion 
pressed  on  her  like  a  weight.  It  did  not  move 
her  like  an  impulse  to  action.  She  thought  of 
Tom.  He  would  understand  now,  and  be  glad 
she  had  sent  him  away. 

The  jury  came  back  and  rendered  their  ver- 
dict, "  Guilty."  Capital  punishment  had  been 


72  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

abolished  in  the  State,  and  Mrs.  Dudley  was 
sentenced  to  imprisonment  for  life. 

The  evidence  had  been  only  circumstantial, 
but  very  strong  against  the  widow.  The  at- 
tempt failed  on  the  part  of  the  defense  to  prove 
that  Mr.  Dudley  killed  himself  by  an  accidental 
overdose  of  arsenic,  which  it  was  asserted  he 
took  habitually  as  a  stimulant.  The  habit  was 
not  even  conclusively  shown  to  have  existed. 
Hannah  and  Patty  had  both  been  put  on  the 
stand  as  witnesses,  but,  fortunately  for  them, 
neither  had  seen  or  known  positively  anything 
about  the  matter. 

Hannah  returned  to  her  work  in  the  mill. 
Patty  did  much  of  the  housework,  and  what 
was  beyond  her  limited  powers  Hannah  per- 
formed at  night,  after  her  toil  in  the  factory 
was  over.  Visitors  had  always  been  rare  at  this 
house.  Now,  no  neighbor  ever  called.  Sue 
Flint  was  still  friendly  when  she  happened  to 
meet  Hannah,  but  she  never  came  to  see  the 
sisters.  Hannah  left  off  going  to  church,  and 
this  fact  was  unfavorably  commented  on.  Patty 
ceased  her  crooning  about  the  house,  and  when 
her  work  was  done  would  sit  motionless  upon 
the  door-sill  through  the  long  summer  days. 
She  always  brightened  when  Hannah  came 
home,  but  it  was  with  only  a  faint  illumination 
of  her  darkened  spirit. 


SAINT  OR  SINNES.  73 

Every  month  the  two  sisters  went  to  the 
state-prison  and  saw  their  mother.  They  car- 
ried her  food  in  such  quantities  that,  in  all  the 
years  that  she  remained  there,  she  was  very  lit- 
tle dependent  on  the  prison  fare.  The  warden 
allowed  the  old  woman  some  privileges  on  ac- 
count of  her  age.  She  was  never  obliged  to 
wear  the  prison  dress,  and  her  daughters  always 
clothed  her.  They  even  did  her  washing,  and 
kept  her  supplied  with  white,  freshly  "done 
up  "  caps.  At  the  intercession  of  some  persons 
of  influence,  whom  Hannah  interested  in  the 
case,  Mrs.  Dudley  was  permitted  to  have  a  rock- 
ing-chair in  her  cell.  The  girls  wanted  to  take 
her  a  feather-bed,  but  this  was  considered  too 
great  a  luxury,  and  she  was  not  allowed  to  have 
it.  She  never  worked  with  the  rest  of  the  fe- 
male prisoners,  but  was  given  yarn  to  knit,  in 
her  own  cell,  into  stockings  for  the  other  con- 
victs. One  of  her  jailers  said  she  showed  her 
passion  for  acquisition  by  stealing  and  secreting 
in  her  bed  great  bunches  of  this  yarn.  She  al- 
ways maintained  that  she  was  innocent.  Some- 
times, even  now,  Hannah  half  believed  that  she 
was  so. 

The  church  at  New  Bridge  dropped  Mrs. 
Dudley's  name  from  the  roll  of  its  membership. 
The  charge  of  her  soul's  salvation  thenceforth 
devolved  on  the  state-prison  chaplain  and  chance 


74  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

visitors  or  preachers  at  the  jail.  But  Hannah 
never  delegated  to  any  other  individual  the  care 
of  her  mother's  person.  The  old  woman  always 
received  her  daughters,  when  they  visited  her, 
with  a  certain  dry  dignity,  such  as  she  seemed 
to  consider  befitting  her  injured  innocence.  She 
might  be  in  a  prison  cell,  but  she  never  forgot 
that  she  was  a  persecuted  martyr,  and,  in  a 
squalid  sort  of  fashion,  she  was  a  stately  one. 

One  evening,  in  the  September  after  Mrs. 
Dudley's  trial,  Patty  left  the  house  after  supper, 
for  a  stroll  across  the  meadows  and  down  to  the 
river,  one  of  whose  many  curves  brought  it  back 
of  their  house.  Hannah  sat  quite  idle,  in  the 
fast-falling  twilight.  The  kitchen  door  stood 
open  before  her.  The  long,  faint  light  streamed 
in  and  fell  about  her.  She  wore  her  dark  fac- 
tory gown.  Her  hair,  generally  twisted  tight 
from  her  face,  was  this  night  pushed  loosely 
back.  Her  hands  lay  clasped  in  her  lap.  Not 
beautiful  she  looked,  yet  surely  not  unlovely, 
for  the  stern  mouth  was  softened,  and  the  hard 
eyes  were  almost  dreamy. 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  that  the  room 
was  darkened,  and,  looking  up,  she  saw  that  a 
man  stood  in  the  door-way  and  shut  out  the 
light. 

A  moment  she  stared  bewildered,  and  then 
she  saw  that  he  held  in  his  arms  a  little  child. 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  75 

A  moment  more,  and  she  knew  that  Tom  Fur- 
ness  stood  before  her.  She  did  not  move,  only 
sat  and  gazed. 

The  man's  lips  trembled,  and  some  strange 
emotion  flickered  over  his  face  as  he  saw  this 
silent  woman  who  sat  in  his  Hannah's  place. 
Then  he  slowly  walked  across  the  room,  and 
laid  the  sleeping  child  in  her  lap.  She  looked 
at  it,  and  she  looked  at  him  wildly,  and  then  she 
gathered  the  little  one  close  to  her  heart. 

Tom  leaned  over  her  and  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  and  felt  her  tremble  under  his  touch. 

"  Hannah,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  have  guessed 
it  all  now,  and  know  why  you  sent  me  away ; 
but  you  should  have  told  me,  and  I  would  have 
stood  by  you.  I  was  mad  and  proud,  and  in  my 
madness  and  pride  I  married  —  a  woman  who 
drank  herself  to  death.  My  boy  is  a  sickly  lit- 
tle fellow,  and  I  've  brought  him  in  my  arms 
all  the  way,  to  ask  you  to  take  him  and  take 
care  of  him." 

A  sound  of  sobbing  filled  the  dreary  old 
kitchen.  All  the  sorrow  and  remorse  and  doubt 
and  fear  of  seven  years  was  told ;  but  after  the 
storm  came  quiet  and  the  promise  of  peaceful 
days. 

New  Bridge  gossip  busied  itself  greatly  over 
the  marriage  of  Tom  Furness  to  Hannah  Dean. 
People  wondered  that  he  dared  marry  into  a 


76  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

family  which  had  proved  so  fatal  to  husbands, 
but  of  course,  some  fragments  of  the  true  story 
were  bruited  about,  and  helped  to  restore  a 
kindly  feeling  towards  Hannah  among  her  neigh- 
bors. They  saw  also  how  motherly  she  was 
with  Tom's  child,  and  how  well  cared  for  the 
boy  was,  and  perceiving  these  things,  New 
Bridge  grew  friendly  again,  and  began  to  be- 
lieve in  Hannah. 

She  left  the  mill  and  entered  upon  a  quiet 
household  life.  She  missed,  at  first,  the  cease- 
less whir  of  the  machinery.  It  was  so  still  at 
home,  she  said,  she  could  not  think ;  but  she 
soon  came  to  feel  this  stillness,  broken  only  by 
Patty's  croon,  which  sounded  again,  and  by  the 
sweet  laugh  of  Torn's  child,  to  be  a  blessed 
thing. 

Tom  and  his  wife  were  naturally  very  ordi- 
nary people,  and  had  they  married  in  their  first 
youth  would  undoubtedly  have  settled  into  a 
most  humdrum  life.  But  they  had  both  lived 
through  sad  and  dark  experiences,  which  made 
every  commonplace  incident  and  detail  of  their 
married  days  an  inexpressible  relief  and  pleas- 
ure, and  thus  they  had  come  to  know  the  deeper 
meaning  of  trifles. 

He  never  shirked  his  part  in  her  sad  ministry 
to  her  mother,  but  she  would  never  let  him  go 
with  her  and  Patty  to  the  prison.  They  con- 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  77 

tinued  their  visits  there,  but  they  always  went 
alone.  Neither  Tom  nor  Tom's  boy  would 
Hannah  permit  to  be  seen  with  them  on  these 
occasions,  when  all  who  saw  them  would  re- 
member their  disgrace. 

Winter  and  summer  wore  away,  and  still 
Mrs.  Dudley  sat  in  her  white- walled  cell,  the 
eternal  knitting  in  her  hand,  the  small,  bright 
eyes  ever  fixed  upon  the  door ;  ten  years  were 
told,  and  never  a  confession  of  guilt  was  drawn 
from  her. 

There  was  one  lady  who  visited  the  prison 
who  took  a  great  interest  in  Mrs.  Dudley,  and 
believed  her  to  be  innocent ;  and  feeling,  also, 
that  a  prison  cell  was  a  dreary  abode  for  a 
woman  nearly  eighty  years  old,  she  made  many 
efforts,  and  at  last  obtained  a  pardon  for  her. 
Those  persons  who  had  testified  against  Mrs. 
Dudley  at  the  trial  at  first  opposed  her  return 
to  New  Bridge.  They  said  they  feared  her 
revenge,  and  all  the  old  suspicion  that  had  been 
lulled  so  long  woke  again,  and  people  looked 
coldly  as  ever  on  Tom  Furness  and  his  wife. 
It  was  a  bitter  time  for  those  two.  They  sent 
Robert  away  on  a  visit,  that  he,  at  least,  might 
be  shielded  from  all  this  evil  speaking. 

"  Oh,  Tom,"  cried  Hannah  once,  "  I  ought 
never  to  have  married  you,  to  bring  this  on 
you." 


78  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

He  smiled  sadly,  yet  tenderly.  "  It  is  hard, 
Hannah,  but  we  '11  weather  it,  and  if  they  get 
the  old  woman  pardoned  we  '11  take  her  and  go 
West,  where  nobody  will  ever  know.  It 's 
clear  in  my  mind  that  it  will  do  no  harm  for 
her,  old  as  she  is,  to  come  out  of  jail.  And 
we  '11  never  think  of  the  past.  We  '11  think 
instead  that  her  mind  has  been  sick  all  her 
life,  and  that  's  how  she  came  to  be  as  she  is. 
Indeed,  I  don't  think  she  was  born  with  a  well 
soul." 

So  Mrs.  Dudley,  in  her  trembling  old  age, 
came  back  to  the  home  she  had  polluted,  and 
which  grew  sad  again  when  she  entered  it. 
Patty  shrank  a  little  from  this  dark,  helpless 
old  woman.  She  had  entirely  forgotten  that 
her  mother  had  ever  been  there  before,  having 
now  for  several  years  had  no  ideas  connected 
with  her  except  the  prison  associations,  and 
she  was  bewildered  to  see  her  in  the  house. 
Robert  stayed  all  this  while  at  Frank  and 
Hetty  Cotter's  busy  and  happy  among  their 
numerous  brood. 

"  If  mother  does  not  live  very  long,"  said 
Hannah,  "  Robert  shall  never  come  home  while 
she  is  here.  He  shall  never  see  her." 

It  seemed  at  first  as  if  the  old  woman  would 
die  very  soon,  but  under  the  thoughtful  care 
they  gave  her  she  rallied  a  little,  and  was  some- 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  79 

times  seen  at  the  front  windows,  looking  out 
at  the  street,  or  on  the  other  side  of  the  house, 
staring  over  the  wide,  lovely  meadows  that 
stretched  down  to  the  peaceful  water.  Did  she 
know  that  the  passers-by  still  shuddered  when 
they  saw  her  dark  old  face  through  the  window- 
pane  ?  Did  she  care  for  the  familiar  fields  and 
the  changing  yet  unchanged  sky  circling  above 
them  ?  Hannah  cared  for  them  all.  And  how 
the  birds  did  sing  and  the  violets  and  saxifrage, 
the  anemones  and  "columbine"  did  bloom  that 
spring.  Hannah  felt  as  if  all  these  beautiful 
objects  were  trying  to  comfort  her,  and  give 
peace  to  her  soul,  so  that  her  strength  might 
endure  to  the  end.  She  had  some  rabbits, 
and  her  inarticulate  nature  found  great  solace 
in  fondling  the  round,  soft,  white  creatures. 
Tom  often  sat  on  a  bench  under  an  old  apple 
tree  and  watched  her  caress  her  little  pets. 

"  Hannah,"  said  he,  once,  "  when  you  was 
a  girl,  and  did  n't  know  no  trouble,  you  was 
old  and  prim  in  your  ways,  but  now  as  you  've 
a  clear  right  to  be  old  and  prim,  you  act  more 
'n  more  like  a  child." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  startled  eyes. 

"  I  ain't  objecting  to  it,"  he  added  in  re- 
sponse to  something  in  her  gaze. 

Then  the  thought  that  struggled  uncertainly 
within  her  found,  for  a  single  time,  words  in 
which  to  utter  itself. 


80  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

"  I  never  got  religion,"  she  said,  "  but  it 
seems  to  me  as  if  God  sent  me  messages  by 
these  pretty  things  out-doors,  telling  me  as  He 
had  forgive  me,  and  telling  me  too  not  to 
worry  so  much." 

Mrs.  Dudley  had  been  at  home  a  fortnight, 
when  a  longing  woke  within  her  to  go  again  to 
the  village  church  where  she  had  once  been  a 
constant  attendant.  She  was  shocked  because 
Tom  and  Hannah  did  not  go  to  church,  and 
querulously  reproved  them. 

"  We  will  go  with  you,"  answered  Hannah, 
with  a  patient  smile. 

"  If  you  went  to  church  regular,"  said  Mrs. 
Dudley,  "may  be  the  Lord  would  give  you 
freedom  from  the  bondage  of  sin,  like  as  He  's 
given  it  to  me." 

As  she  spoke,  Tom  remembered  the  super- 
stitious belief  of  some  religious  fanatics,  that 
they  were  so  intimately  associated  by  grace 
with  God's  grace  that  they  could  do  no  wrong, 
and  he  wondered  whether  Mrs.  Dudley  were 
not  under  the  influence  of  this  idea.  Perhaps 
she  had  believed  that  whatever  annoyed  her 
annoyed  God  also,  and  it  was  lawful  for  her  to 
put  it  away.  Was  this  the  explanation  of  her 
constant  assertion  of  innocence  ? 

Tom  was  too  proud  just  then  to  borrow  a 
horse  and  carriage  of  any  of  the  neighbors,  to 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  81 

carry  to  church  the  feeble  old  convict.  So 
when  Sunday  came,  he  took  a  small  wagon, 
which  he  had  obtained  somewhere,  set  an  arm- 
chair in  it,  and  placed  therein  the  old  woman. 
Hannah  and  Patty  walked  along  the  sidewalk; 
Tom  went  between  the  shafts  and  drew  the 
wagon  himself. 

Through  the  Sunday  quiet  of  the  village 
street  they  passed,  under  the  arching  elms  and 
the  straight,  fair  maples,  and  they  paused  at 
length  before  the  old  white  church.  Silently 
Tom  lifted  Mrs.  Dudley  out,  and  Hannah  sup- 
ported her  up  the  steps.  Their  faces  were  set 
and  pale,  but  hers  was  flushed,  and  it  trembled 
a  little  with  the  helpless  quiver  of  old  age. 
They  led  her  in  to  the  seat  to  which  she  had 
formerly  been  accustomed,  and  they  sat  down 
by  her. 

She  stared  about  her  a  moment,  then  fixed 
her  eyes  on  the  minister,  and  the  old  peculiar 
Sunday  look  which  Hannah  had  known  from 
childhood  stole  over  her  face. 

She  rigidly  maintained  this  appearance  of 
devotion  to  the  end  of  the  service.  God  only 
knows  what  were  the  thoughts  of  any  one  of 
that  strange  family  group.  He  knows  also 
whether  the  sort  of  pious  feeling  which  Mrs. 
Dudley  manifested  from  her  earliest  to  her 
latest  days  was  purely  assumed,  or  whether  it 

6 


82  SAINT  OR  SINNER. 

arose  from  some  real  germ  of  good  in  her  ill- 
born  and  sin-distorted  soul. 

Through  the  long  morning  service,  with  the 
sweet  sounds  of  nature  stealing  in  through  the 
open  windows,  Mrs.  Dudley  kept  her  place. 
She  sat  among  her  life-long  neighbors,  and  they 
gazed  on  her  fearfully.  The  mark  of  Cain  was 
on  her  brow,  but  her  children  faithfully  sur- 
rounded her,  and  it  may  be  God  had  not  quite 
forsaken  her. 

The  next  day  one  of  the  church  members 
met  Tom  Furness,  and  told  him,  with  a  not 
unnatural  disgust,  that  great  dissatisfaction  was 
felt  at  Mrs.  Dudley's  appearance  in  the  house 
of  God.  It  disturbed  the  congregation,  and  it 
must  not  happen  again. 

A  savage  light  gleamed  for  an  instant  in 
Tom's  eyes,  then  he  spoke  quietly :  "  Very  well, 
I  don't  think  much  of  your  religion,  but  I 
thought  the  particular  boast  of  your  church  was 
that  it  preached  a  gospel  fit  for  sinners  and 
powerful  to  save  them." 

So  the  quaint  procession  never  reappeared  in 
the  streets  of  New  Bridge,  and  the  sinner  came 
no  more  to  the  house  of  penitence  and  prayer. 

A  little  longer  Mrs.  Dudley  lingered  on  the 
threshold  of  the  grave.  A  few  more  sunny  days 
and  long,  still  evenings  remained  for  her ;  for 
Hannah  and  her  husband  yet  a  little  more  pa- 
tience and  silent  pain,  and  then  the  end  came. 


SAINT  OR  SINNER.  83 

No  confession  passed  Mrs.  Dudley's  lips.  She 
sank  into  a  sort  of  stupor,  and  died  quietly  at 
last.  They  were  all  there :  Frank  and  Hetty 
Cotter,  Tom,  Hannah,  and  Patty.  When  the 
wretched  life  was  fairly  gone,  Tom  drew  a  long, 
free  breath,  and  lifted  his  head  like  a  man  who 
throws  down  a  great  burden.  Each  person  save 
Hannah,  whose  head  was  bowed  in  her  hands, 
turned  and  looked  strangely  at  the  others. 
Death  had  set  the  living  free,  and  a  great  won- 
der, a  great  sorrow,  and  a  great  exultation  were 
all  written  for  a  moment  in  those  blanched 
faces.  No  one  spoke  till  Tom  crossed  over  and 
laid  his  hand  on  Hannah's  shoulder.  "  Dear," 
said  he,  "it  is  over  now.  We  will  send  for 
Robert,  and  take  Patty,  and  move  somewhere, 
far  from  here." 


LUKE   GARDINER'S  LOVE. 


EDEN'S  step-father,  Johnny  Ronian,  did  not 
favor  her  "  keeping  company  "  with  Luke  Gar- 
diner, so  he  made  up  a  story  out  of  a  quarrel 
he  had  had  with  the  young  man,  and  one  morn- 
ing, when  she  was  on  her  way  to  the  mill,  he 
told  her  that  young  Gardiner  said  he  would  n't 
have  anything  to  do  with  her,  even  if  her  family 
asked  him. 

Poor  little  Eden  believed  the  lie  and  was  very 
angry  and  very  much  hurt.  She  was  glad  to  be 
released  from  her  task,  when  something  about 
the  machinery  needed  repairing  in  the  course 
of  the  forenoon,  and  to  escape  into  a  long  gal- 
lery formed  by  a  bridge  in  the  air,  connecting 
two  of  the  mill  buildings.  She  put  her  aching 
head  out  of  a  little  window.  Out-door  sounds, 
musical  and  spring-like,  came  to  her  ears.  She 
could  see  on  the  other  side  of  the  merrily  flow- 
ing river  the  little  house  where  Luke  Gardiner 
lived.  It  had  been  his  home  when  he  was  a 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  85 

child,  and  he  and  she  had  played  together  round 
the  door-step  of  unhewn  stone,  and  had  fished 
and  waded  in  the  shallow  waters  near  by,  where 
the  pickerel-weed  grew.  Luke  had  kissed  her 
when  he  and  his  mother  had  said  good-bye  and 
moved  away  from  Blackbird  Hollow.  She  re- 
membered the  kiss  now,  with  a  smile  and  a 
pang.  During  Luke's  absence  he  had  learned 
to  be  a  machinist,  and  on  his  return,  at  the  last 
Christmas  time,  he  had  established  his  mother 
again  in  the  old  cottage  home.  The  intimacy 
with  Eden  had  been  renewed,  and  had  soon 
taken  upon  itself  a  character  of  fitful  tender- 
ness, much  interfered  with  by  the  step-father's 
violent  opposition  and  the  girl's  own  light- 
headed tendency  to  flirt  with  other  men. 

Ronian  had  several  reasons  for  disliking  the 
young  man,  chief  among  which  was  the  fact 
that  although  English  by  blood,  Luke,  who 
was  of  American  birth,  consorted  with  the 
Americans.  It  was  soon  after  the  Know-Noth- 
ing  times,  and  Ronian  hated  the  Yankees  as 
cordially  as  he  supposed  they  hated  his  race. 
Besides,  neither  he  nor  the  girl's  mother  wanted 
her  to  marry  any  one,  since,  if  she  did,  they 
could  no  longer  control  her  wages. 

As  Eden  lingered  at  the  window,  some  one 
came  behind  and  lightly  kissed  her  cheek.  The 
offender,  an  overseer  named  Joe  Glancy,  had 


86  LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE. 

some  ado  to  appease  her,  but  he  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  making  her  laugh. 

"  That  's  right,"  he  said  then.  "  And  now 
we  're  friendly,  look  here,  I  saw  these  t'  other 
day,  an'  thinking  how  awful  pretty  you  'd  look 
in  'em,  I  bought  'em." 

He  showed  her  a  pair  of  tinsel  ear-rings, 
among  the  first  manufactured  of  the  sort  of  jew- 
elry destined  to  captivate  the  fancy  of  her  class. 

"  Oh-h,"  she  sighed,  "  they  're  just  like  Kate 
McCannah's !  No,  they  're  prettier !  But  I 
can't  take  'em.  Thank  you  just  the  same." 

"  Think  how  becomin'  they  'd  be,"  he  urged. 
"  The  boys  would  all  be  runnin'  after  you." 

"  The  boys  run  after  me  now,"  she  said, 
with  a  laugh. 

"  You  're  afraid  of  what  Luke  Gardiner  'd 
say.  It 's  along  of  him.  Ain't  you  ashamed  !  " 

This  touched  the  sore  spot  in  her  little  heart. 
"  It  ain't  along  of  him,"  she  cried.  "  An'  I  '11 
take  'em  to  prove  it,  Mr.  Glancy." 

There  was  a  greedy  gloat  in  his  eyes  as  she 
fastened  on  the  ornaments,  tossed  her  head  and 
marched  away  without  another  word. 

Eden  found  her  mother  crying  when  she  went 
home  that  night.  They  lived  up-stairs  in  what 
was  called  the  Stone  house,  a  building  which 
stood  at  one  end  of  the  bridge  across  the  river. 
Luke's  cottage  was  on  the  opposite  bank. 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  87 

Mrs.  Ronian  sat  in  dirt  and  despair.  Three 
small  children  meanwhile  played  happily  in 
some  washtubs  on  the  floor,  and  a  twelve-year- 
old  girl  sewed  by  the  window. 

"  Oh,"  sobbed  the  woman,  "  I  'm  a-feared  of 
my  life.  He  come  in  just  now,  a  bit  early  from 
his  work,  an'  he  struck  Flit,  an'  I  run  in  at  ween, 
an'  he  grabbed  me  by  t'e  t'roat.  He  wur  sober, 
too.  I  'd  not  ha'  minded  it  if  he  'd  been  drunk. 
Of  course  a  man  can't  take  careful  note  o'  what 
he  does  when  he 's  been  drinking.  But  he 
knowed  what  he  done,  an'  he  swore  he  'd  send 
Flit  to  the  poor-'us." 

Here  the  child,  who  had  been  crying,  came 
and  laid  a  long  thin  hand  on  Eden's  arm,  and 
looked  up  with  large,  glazy  eyes. 

"Please  give  me  a  cent,"  she  said;  "just 
one." 

"  Me  !  "  laughed  the  elder  girl.  "  My  money 
goes  for  rent  and  coal." 

"  If  I  asked  Uncle  John,"  said  the  child,  «« to 
give  my  mother  the  rent,  would  he  ?  " 

"  No,  Flit,  I  guess  not,"  said  Eden. 

"  Uncle  John  "  was  the  name  by  which  the 
Quaker  mill-owner,  Mr.  Comstock,  was  called 
by  his  work-people. 

Eden  went  to  the  closet  to  get  herself  some- 
thing to  eat.  The  mother  sighed,  and  bustled 
the  children  out  of  the  washtubs.  Flit  gave  a 


88  LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE. 

bubbling,  uncanny  laugh,  as  she  turned  to  the 
open  window.  The  soft,  western  breeze  blew 
her  short,  reddish  hair  over  her  forehead.  She 
took  a  small  blue  shawl  from  a  chair,  and  with 
a  swift,  gliding  step,  eluding  her  sister's  grasp, 
as  Eden  came  from  the  closet,  darted  past  the 
others,  and  fled  from  the  room. 

"  There,"  groaned  Mrs.  Ronian,  "  she  's  gone, 
an'  night  comin'  on,  an'  oh,  there  's  plenty  of 
harm  as  can  happen  to  a  girl  like  her,  —  an' 
she  's  that  crazy  after  money,  she  'd  go  any- 
where with  any  one  as  offered  her  ten  cents." 

Eden  hastened  after  the  child.  Some  one 
told  her  Flit  had  crossed  the  river,  and  she 
followed,  thinking  that  she  saw  a  sprite-like 
form  pass  Luke's  house.  She  went  thither  and 
pushed  open  the  door.  Luke,  sitting  within, 
started  to  see  that  figure  standing  on  his  thresh- 
old, the  sunset  color  all  about  it.  His  mother, 
a  small,  fine-faced  old  Englishwoman,  looked 
up  from  the  table,  on  which  she  leaned  her  el- 
bows. 

"  Why,  Eden,  is  it  you  ?  I  'm  truly  glad  to 
see  you." 

"  You  're  kind  to  say  that,"  answered  Eden, 
with  drooping  eyes.  "  An'  how  are  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  just  coomfortable  now ;  naething  to 
groomble  at,"  said  Mrs.  Gardiner,  cheerily. 

"Your  health  is  better  than  it  was?" 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  .  89 

"  Ah,  that  changes  like  all  else  ;  naething  to 
groomble  at.  Coom  in." 

"  No,"  said  Eden,  still  speaking  rather  softly. 
"  I  cannot  stop  now.  I  'm  lookin'  for  Flit,  an' 
I  saw  her  here  as  I  come  over  the  bridge." 

"  I  saw  summun  a  spyin'  in  at  the  window,  a 
momunt  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Gardiner,  "but  the 
face  just  vanished  like  the  lady  I  seen  in  my 
dream  last  night." 

Eden  turned  away,  and  Luke  followed. 

"  I  'd  liefer  go  alone,"  she  said. 

"  But  I  'd  liefer  go  with  you." 

She  was  angry  with  him  for  what  she  thought 
he  had  said  about  her ;  but  she  could  not  help 
being  glad  to  walk  beside  him.  So  they  went 
on  together  through  the  deepening  twilight. 
Now  and  then  they  thought  they  saw  Flit  glid- 
ing round  some  corner,  or  darting  into  some 
shadow.  They  stopped  at  one  or  two  houses  to 
inquire.  They  glanced  into  the  grocery,  and 
fearfully  peered  into  rumshops. 

"  Let 's  go  to  the  church,"  said  Eden  ;  "  she 's 
so  religious  she  may  be  there." 

In  Mr.  Comstock's  sitting-room  several  per- 
sons sat  around  a  table  which  supported  two  oil 
lamps.  A  drugget  crumb-cloth  of  an  ugly  pat- 
tern covered  part  of  the  ingrain  carpet  on  the 
floor.  A  cupboard  of  shelves,  shut  into  the  wall 
by  a  glass  door,  served  as  a  bookcase.  Here 


90  LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE. 

stood  a  long  row  of  leather-bound  volumes,  let- 
tered, "  Piety  Promoted."  Beside  them  was 
the  Book  of  Discipline  of  the  Society  of  Friends. 
On  the  shelf  below  might  be  found  Mrs.  Cha- 
pone's  "  Letters,"  indorsed  on  the  fly-leaf  with 
a  recommendation  in  stilted  phrases,  written  by 
Mrs.  Comstock's  father.  There  were  other  old 
books,  and  two  new  ones,  "Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin,"  and  "The  Wide,  Wide  World." 

There  were  no  pictures  on  the  buff  walls  of 
this  room,  but  in  the  unlighted  parlors  beyond 
hung  an  engraving  of  Correggio's  Holy  Night, 
and  some  portraits,  in  oval  gilt  frames,  of  Wm. 
Lloyd  Garrison,  Wendell  Phillips,  and  Theo- 
dore Parker. 

Plenty  of  children  inhabited  this  house,  but 
they  were  all  in  bed  since  sunset,  according  to 
the  family  custom,  at  once  healthful  for  the 
youngsters  and  pleasant  to  the  elders. 

Mr.  Comstock  was  reading  the  "  Liberator." 
He  held  the  paper  so  that  his  wife  could  see 
plainly  the  words  "  A  Covenant  with  Death, 
An  Agreement "  —  the  rest  was  out  of  sight. 
Mrs.  Comstock  was  sewing.  She  wore  a  gown 
of  semi-religious  fashion,  which  had  been 
stripped  of  the  sweet  quaintness  of  the  Quaker 
style,  and  had  not  gained  any  worldly  grace 
instead  thereof.  She  had  a  serious  face  and  ab- 
stracted eyes.  Near  her  sat  Miss  Firth,  the 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  91 

governess  who  had  imported  into  the  family  a 
few  ideas  from  Concord.  Hers  was  an  intelli- 
gent countenance  with  pudgy  features.  She 
was  reading  intently  in  Thoreau's  "  Walden." 
Everybody  was  absorbed,  not  even  noticing  the 
swift  sliding  of  small  bare  feet  upon  the  carpet, 
till  a  hand  touched  Mr.  Comstock's  shoulder, 
and  a  voice  said :  — 

"  Uncle  John,  won't  you  give  my  mother  the 
rent  of  her  house,  and  won't  you  give  me  ten 
cents  ?  " 

They  all  started  to  see  a  young  girl  standing 
among  them,  a  girl  with  pale,  parted  lips,  a  dead 
white  face,  and  strange,  pathetic  eyes. 

"  Please  give  me  ten  cents,"  she  continued  to 
beg.  "  My  mother  gives  all  her  money  to  the 
Mission  Fathers,  so  's  they  will  cure  me,  an'  I  '11 
not  be  sick  any  more.  An'  please  tell  me  what 
makes  the  Yankee  people  hate  the  Irish  ?  " 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Comstock.  The 
girl  from  the  kitchen  came  in  to  identify  her. 
"  It 's  crazy  Flit,"  she  said.  "  She  must  ha' 
come  in  the  woodshed,  an'  right  past  me.  No- 
body never  sees  her  till  she 's  most  in  their 
mouths.  She's  so  still.  Miss  Ingham  found 
her  up-stairs  in  her  spare  room  t'  other  day,  a 
lay  in'  on  her  company  bed." 

Flit  crouched  down  behind  Mr.  Comstock's 
chair,  wailing,  "  Ah,  don't  send  me  away.  I 
only  want  one  cent,  —  just  one  cent." 


92  LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE. 

He  handed  her  a  coin.  She  sprang  like  a 
panther  to  take  it,  and  cried,  "  Please  give  me 
another!  I  want  one  so  bad." 

At  that  moment  the  door-bell  rang  clearly, 
and  Eden  was  soon  ushered  into  the  room.  "  Is 
my  little  sister  here  ?  "  asked  she. 

Flit  sprang  to  her,  laughed  joyfully,  and 
grasped  her  hand. 

"  Some  children,"  explained  Eden,  "  told  me 
they  thought  they  see  her  come  in  here." 

Mrs.  Comstock  took  the  sisters  to  the  door, 
where  Luke  stood  waiting,  and  expressed  a 
kindly  hope  that  Flit  might  not  be  punished 
for  her  escapade.  She  went  back  with  a 
thoughtful  brow.  Miss  Firth  was  saying,  "  I 
suppose  perfect  liberty  of  action  is  undoubt- 
edly best  for  the  development  of  children  with 
peculiar  idiosyncrasies." 

Mrs.  Comstock  slowly  folded  up  her  work  for 
the  night,  considering  this  proposition,  while 
uncle  John's  benignant  face  grew  serious,  as  he 
said  that  the  introduction  of  foreigners  among 
the  operatives  had  quite  changed  the  condi- 
tions of  life  in  New  England,  and  seemed  likely 
to  involve  serious  consequences. 

Luke  left  the  girls  at  their  outside  door.  As 
they  mounted  the  stairs,  they  were  terrified  by 
the  noises  that  came  from  above,  but  they  went 
on,  and  up,  to  their  mother's  kitchen.  Ronian 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  .         93 

stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  in  a  drunken 
fury.  He  seized  Flit,  and  struck  her  heavy 
blows,  accusing  her  of  having  stolen  money 
from  him.  She  rushed  behind  Eden,  and  that 
attracted  his  attention  to  her.  Her  sun-bonnet 
had  fallen  back,  and  he  saw  her  ear-rings.  He 
caught  hold  of  them  savagely. 

"  Where  did  you  get  them  ?  "  he  demanded. 
"  You  stole  the  money  yourself,  and  bought 
'em." 

The  mother  rushed  forward,  but  he  pushed 
the  girl  towards  the  door,  with  his  hands  and 
feet,  raging  and  swearing.  She  stumbled  and 
staggered  a  moment  before  him,  then  sprang 
erect  like  a  flame,  took  Flit's  hand,  and  fled 
with  her  down  into  the  dark  street. 

Mrs.  Ronian  tried  to  follow,  but  her  husband 
held  her  back.  "  Go  to  bed,"  he  said ;  "  let  the 
brats  have  a  taste  of  the  night  air  to  cool  'em 
off." 

Hand  in  hand  the  sisters  ran,  till  they  nearly 
knocked  against  a  girl  who  had  just  bounced 
down  an  out-door  stair-case  leading  from  the 
second  story  of  one  of  the  factory  tenement 
houses. 

"  Hollo,"  said  this  girl  roughly  ;  "  what 's 
up?" 

"  O  Katy,"  gasped  Eden,  and  then  told  their 
story.  Kate  McCannah  laughed.  "  Bah,"  said 


94  LUKE   GARDINER'S  LOVE. 

she,  "  let  him  alone.  He  's  full  of  rum.  Come 
home  with  me." 

Glad  of  any  shelter,  the  outcasts  climbed  the 
stairs  with  the  girl.  In  the  kitchen  above, 
they  found  Kate's  sisters,  Rosa  and  lame  Lucy, 
and  their  father.  Kindly  greetings  were  ex- 
changed, and  Lucy  hobbled  about  and  got 
everybody  tea  in  bowls  and  cracked  cups. 
Afterwards  the  girls  went  up  to  the  attic.  It 
was  a  large  unfinished  garret,  in  the  middle 
of  which  stood  a  low  bedstead.  A  couple  of 
calico  quilts  were  thrown  in  a  heap  in  one 
corner  of  the  room.  Some  dresses  dangled  from 
nails  stuck  in  the  rafters.  A  broken  chair  and 
two  boxes  completed  the  furnishing  of  the  room. 

Kate  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  kicked  her 
heels  together. 

"Three  in  a  bed  is  a  tight  fit,"  she  said. 
"  How  about  five  ?  I  '11  lie  across  the  foot." 

Flit  curled  herself  up  among  the  quilts  on 
the  floor.  "  I  'm  all  right  here,"  she  said ;  "  you 
others  can  take  the  bed." 

She  lay  motionless,  while  the  girls  told  their 
beads.  "  Say  your  prayers,  Flit,"  urged  Eden, 
but  the  child  did  not  move.  "  By  and  by," 
she  said,  and  Eden  went  sleepily  to  her  small 
portion  of  the  uneven  couch.  When  all  was 
quiet,  Flit  stole  to  the  window.  The  moon  was 
rising.  She  drew  from  her  breast  a  rosary  and 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  95 

sank  on  her  knees  in  the  white  light  which 
shone  on  her  drooped  eyelids.  She  prayed  aloud 
that  the  saints  would  make  her  well,  —  would 
just  make  her  well !  As  she  knelt  her  terrible 
disease  overcame  her,  and  she  fell  forward  un- 
conscious. The  noise  roused  Eden,  who  got  up 
to  see  to  her. 

The  next  noon,  as  Eden  and  the  McCannah 
girls  entered  the  mill-yard,  Luke  came  up  to 
them.  He  recognized  at  once  the  ear-rings  that 
Eden  wore.  He  had  seen  Glancy  buy  them.  He 
caught  hold  of  her  arm.  A  crowd  of  the  mill 
people  surged  about  them,  and  hid  the  sudden 
gesture.  She  freed  herself  and  fled  from  him 
into  the  building.  He  followed  and  found  her 
alone  on  the  factory  stairs. 

"  Why  do  you  wear  Joe  Glancy's  ear-rings  ?  " 
he  cried. 

"  What  is  it  to  you,  what  I  wear  ?  I  have  n't 
forgot  what  you  said  about  not  keepin'  com- 
pany with  me." 

"  It  is  n't  that,"  persisted  Luke,  "  but  peo- 
ple are  talking  about  you  ;  your  father  an' 
everybody.  They  say  you  've  gone  to  Mc- 
Cannah's  along  o'  Glancy.  It  's  enough  to  ruin 
a  girl." 

She  threw  her  hands  out  blindly,  and  as  Joe 
Glancy  came  up  the  stairs,  greeted  him  as 
though  he  were  a  friend  who  could  protect 


96  LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE. 

her  from  Gardiner's  look  and  word.  The  over- 
seer lightly  linked  his  arm  in  hers,  and  rushed 
her  up  the  remaining  steps,  while  the  baffled 
young  machinist  turned  down,  with  a  face  grown 
grey  and  stern. 

So  things  grew  worse  between  these  two, 
Luke  and  Eden,  for  when  he  went  home  that 
night,  he  heard  more  gossip.  "  Flit  was  bad," 
said  his  mother,  "  an'  Eden  had  took  'er  part, 
an'  both .  had  been  turned  out  of  doors  in  the 
night.  An'  Ronian  was  goin'  to  send  an  officer 
after  the  girls  that  day,  but  the  rheumatics 
got  'im,  an'  'e  was  in  bed,  an'  the  mother  would 
not  stir  to  get  the  officer.  An'  Eden  'ad  said 
everywhere,  as  she  would  n't  go  home." 

The  evening  was  cloudy,  and  darkness  settled 
early  over  the  village  and  over  the  swampy 
shallows  of  the  mill-pond,  where  the  opal  colors 
of  the  sunset  were  wont  to  lie  reflected  for  long 
hours  between  lily-pads  and  pickerel- weed. 

Flit  meanwhile  made  her  escape  from  Lucy's 
careless  guardianship,  and  roamed  at  will  about 
the  darkening  streets.  She  found  Luke  on  the 
bridge,  gloomily  staring  into  the  black,  slippery 
flood.  She  slid  up  to  him  and  touched  his  arm. 
He  turned,  saying  bluntly,  for  the  child's  noise- 
less ways  made  him  nervous, 

"  What  do  you  want  now? " 

She  locked  her  hands  around  his  arm,  and 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  97 

looked  up  in  his  face.    "  Dear  Luke,"  she  said, 
"  I  love  you.     But,  O  Luke,  I  wish  you  'd  give 
me  some  money." 
0    "  Why  don't  you  go  home  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  He  'd  beat  me,"  said  she.  "  Oh,  he  'd  beat 
me.  I  don't  think  my  mother  would,  but  he 
would.  Next  week  Eden  says  she  '11  take  me 
to  Woonsocket,  an'  I  V  her  '11  live  there  to- 
gether." 

"  That  won't  do,"  muttered  the  young  man. 
He  took  the  child's  hand.  "Come,  go  back 
with  me  an'  stay  with  Eden  to-night." 

When  they  were  near  McCannah's  house, 
Flit  pulled  Luke  out  of  the  road. 

"  Come  with  me,"  she  pleaded  ;  "  do,  dear 
Luke."  He  went  with  her  into  the  shadow  of 
a  little  bluff  behind  the  house.  The  pines  of 
the  original  forest  crowned  the  summit,  and  be- 
low, some  laurel  bushes  shaded  the  spot  where 
the  child  paused. 

"I  want  to  say  my  prayers  here,"  she  said, 
"  they  're  so  noisy  in  there." 

Kneeling,  she  glanced  up  to  the  clouded  sky. 
It  was  so  dark  he  could  not  well  see  the  little 
pale  face  with  the  strange,  perfectly  shaped 
eyes ;  but  it  seemed  to  him  he  saw  it,  as  she 
went  on. 

"  An'  do  you  know  what  I  will  pray  ?  It 's 
what  I  'm  wishin'  all  the  time,  that  I  was  in 

7 


98  LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE. 

heaven,  Luke,  where  I  'd  never  be  sick  any 
more." 

When  her  prayers  were  done  he  led  her  to 
the  house ;  then  he  went  back  and  hid  among 
the  laurel  bushes.  He  had  seen  a  shadow  cross 
one  of  the  upper  windows,  and  had  recognized 
Glancy's  figure. 

Some  time  before  this,  Eden  came  back  from 
an  errand. 

"  Where  's  Flit?"  was  her  first  question. 

"  Gone  to  bed,"  said  Lucy,  who  was  placidly 
sewing  and  had  not  noticed  the  girl's  absence. 
McCannah  tilted  his  chair,  smoked  his  pipe,  and 
opened  and  shut  his  eyes  at  intervals.  Eden 
tossed  down  her  bonnet,  and  turned  round  glow- 
ing to  meet  Kate  and  Rosa,  who  came  in  with 
Joe  Glancy,  and  they  all  rushed  wildly  into  the 
other  room.  Joe  caught  Kate  around  the  waist. 
She  pushed  him  off,  and  he  stumbled  and  pre- 
tended to  fall.  Two  other  girls  burst  in  and 
joined  in  making  a  hubbub.  The  old  man  got  up 
from  his  chair  and  walked  in  from  the  kitchen. 

"If  you  break  the  lamp  you  shan't  have 
another !  "  he  growled. 

"All  right,"  said  Joe;  "I  love  to  set  in  the 
dark." 

McCannah  started  to  take  away  the  lamp  at 
once,  as  an  economical  precaution ;  but  Lucy 
laid  a  hand  on  his  arm,  — 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  99 

"  Don't,  father ;  they  do  act  so  rough  in  the 
dark,  an'  you  know  the  super'  has  warned  us 
from  bein'  so  noisy  nights." 

He  yielded,  and  she  placed  the  light  carefully 
on  the  mantel  shelf  beside  a  highly  colored  plas- 
ter image  of  the  Virgin.  Then  she  brought 
some  gingerbread,  and  Joe  produced  some  liq- 
uor in  a  bottle.  Eden  sat  a  little  apart,  and 
would  not  drink,  in  spite  of  much  boisterous 
urging. 

"  Well,"  said  Joe,  "  I  guess  you  '11  dance." 

He  took  out  a  fiddle,  and  as  he  played  the 
girls  revolved  before  him  till  he  felt  as  if  he 
owned  them  all.  Lucy  alone  stood  still,  look- 
ing on  wistfully.  After  a  while  Kate  began  to 
tease  Eden  to  do  for  them  a  clog  dance,  the  per- 
formance of  which  was  an  unfeminine  accom- 
plishment in  which  the  little  maiden  excelled. 
She  laughed  and  refused,  till  at  last,  when  Joe 
drew  his  bow  across  the  strings,  she  began  to 
move  her  feet.  Her  eyes  burned  and  her  cheeks 
grew  red.  The  excitement  which  had  been  in 
her  veins  all  day  seemed  to  find  relief  in  mo- 
tion. Old  McCannah  stood  in  the  doorway  and 
clapped  his  hands.  As  the  minutes  went  on, 
and  still  she  danced,  she  grew  very  pale.  At  a 
sign  from  Joe,  Kate  poured  some  liquor  into  a 
tumbler  and  handed  it  to  her.  Eden  took  the 
glass  and  held  it  above  her  head,  without  ceas- 
ing her  movements. 


100  LUKE  GARDINER 8  LOVE. 

"  Drink !  "  cried  Joe,  "  or  we  '11  think  you  've 
gone  over  to  the  Yankee  temp'rance  folks,  like 
Luke  Gardiner." 

She  seemed  to  hear  the  name  as  if  it  were 
shouted  across  rushing  waters ;  then  she  drained 
the  glass,  tossed  it  to  Joe,  and  threw  herself  into 
a  chair,  and  leaned  back  a  moment  while  the 
red  blood  rose  again  to  her  cheeks,  and  a  dizzy 
smile  came  to  her  lips. 

Luke  waited  outside,  till  the  house  door 
opened  and  several  figures  rushed  down  the 
stairs. 

Kate  and  Lucy  took  Eden  between  them  and 
walked  her  swiftly  forward.  Luke  followed 
and  perceived  her  condition.  Unused  to  liquor, 
that  one  glass  had  been  sufficient  to  upset  her ; 
but  Joe  had  forced  her  to  drink  another,  and 
now  she  did  not  know  where  she  went,  or  what 
she  did  or  said.  Joe  led  the  way,  and  when 
they  came  to  the  door  of  a  little  grog-shop,  he 
stopped  and  urged  them  to  come  in.  Kate  was 
quite  ready,  but  Lucy  hung  back. 

"  You  go  home,  Joe,"  she  said,  "  an'  she  '11  be 
all  right  soon.  It  'uld  be  a  shame  to  get  her  in 
there." 

"  Oh,  you,"  he  growled ;  "  you  talk."  Then 
he  stooped  and  whispered  in  her  ear.  She  drew 
her  breath  shudderingly,  twisted  her  fingers,  and 
said :  — 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  101 

"All  right;  let's  go  in." 

Joe  caught  hold  of  Eden  and  pulled  her  for- 
ward ;  but  Luke  rushed  upon  him  from  behind 
the  girls,  knocked  him  down  and  stood  over  him 
like  a  rough  St.  George. 

Lucy  gave  a  little  cry,  the  others  screamed, 
then  giggled.  Some  men  came  out  of  the  sa- 
loon. 

"  For  God's  sake,"  said  Gardiner,  "  take  that 
girl  home  to  her  mother." 

For  a  moment  no  one  spoke ;  then  Lucy  said, 
"  No,  if  she  went  home  now  they  'd  beat  her  to 
death ;  but  I  promise  you,  Luke,  she  shall  stay 
safe  with  me  all  night." 

Glancy  was  slowly  recovering  from  the  stu- 
por engendered  by  his  fall,  and  struggled  under 
Luke's  feet  and  fists.  The  girls  slipped  away. 
Then  Gardiner  defied  the  whole  crowd  of  men, 
let  Joe  go,  and  backed  off  till  he  had  made  sure 
that  he  would  not  be  pursued,  when  he  turned 
and  ran  after  Eden  and  her  companions.  At 
the  foot  of  the  stair-case  leading  to  the  McCan- 
nah  tenement,  he  took  Lucy  by  the  shoulders 
and  looked  threateningly  down  through  the 
darkness  into  her  eyes. 

"Luke,"  said  she,  "don't  be  too  hard  on 
Eden.  Don't  fret  her  and  make  her  mad.  It 's 
comfortin'  that  a  girl  needs  sometimes  to  make 
her  good." 


102  LUKE   GARDINER'S  LOVE. 

All  night  long  Gardiner  sat  on  the  steps 
and  guarded  the  approach  to  the  rooms  above. 
When  the  dawn  reddened  over  the  factory  roofs, 
he  rose  and  staggered  to  the  river  bank,  threw 
himself  on  the  ground  and  stared  in  to  the  stream. 

"If  I  was  God,"  he  said  aloud,  "I'd  be  — 
ashamed  to  let  a  girl  like  that  get  —  spoiled. 
If  He  's  a  good  God,  I  should  think  He  'd  do 
something.  I  would  if  I  was  Him." 

He  threw  some  pebbles  in  the  water.  They 
broke  the  shining  surface  into  glancing,  circling 
ripples.  He  seemed  to  see  Eden's  face  floating 
dead  on  the  swift  current.  He  raised  his  eyes 
to  the  pallid  heavens,  and  said,  "  If  you  won't 
save  her,  God,  I  will." 

It  showed  that  Eden  was  somewhat  demoral- 
ized, that  she  made  no  effort  to  rise  that  morn- 
ing and  go  to  her  work.  Rosa  and  Kate  Mc- 
Cannah  departed,  leaving  her  asleep,  and  Lucy 
locked  Flit  into  the  kitchen  while  she  went  out 
on  an  errand.  The  child,  not  liking  to  be 
imprisoned,  dropped  through  the  window  on  to 
the  stair-case,  and  walked  off  with  head  erect. 
Her  mother  saw  her  pass  the  Stone  house,  and 
leaned  out  of  the  casement  to  call. 

"  Flit,  Flit,  come  home !  We  've  found  the 
money,  an'  yer  father  won't  beat  you." 

Flit  raised  her  long  eyelashes.  "I'll  come 
by  and  by.  I'm  goin'  to  church  now;"  and 


LUKE  GARDINER S  LOVE.  103 

without  delay  she  sped  across  the  bridge.  The 
mother  would  fain  have  followed,  but  Ronian 
called  to  her  from  his  bed,  and  kept  her  waiting 
on  him. 

When,  at  last,  Eden  awoke  and  remembered 
clearly  what  had  happened  on  the  previous 
evening,  she  buried  her  golden  head  in  the  tum- 
bled bedclothes,  and  wished  she  was  dead.  Her 
own  father  had  been  a  man  superior  to  her 
mother,  and  Eden's  childhood  had  been  spent 
in  better  surroundings  than  those  of  later  years. 
She  had  never  before  sunk  to  the  level  of  her 
present  companions.  Shame  overwhelmed  her. 
She  had  promised  Joe  that  she  would  go  with 
him  this  next  night  to  a  dance  in  a  neighboring 
town.  A  sudden  fear  seized  her  as  she  thought 
of  it.  Young  as  she  was,  she  was  not  so  igno- 
rant as  not  to  know  the  danger  in  which  she 
stood.  She  moaned  and  muttered  to  herself. 
"  Oh,  oh ;  what  difference  can  anything  make 
after  what  Luke  saw  last  night!  I  can't  be 
good  an'  happy  no  more.  I  won't  be  good  an' 
miserable.  I  '11  go  with  Joe  —  an'  dance.  Oh, 
Luke,  —  if  only  Luke  had  n't  got  mad  with  me. 
If  he  only  had  n't  seen  me."  Then  she  threw 
up  her  arms  and  laughed.  "  I  guess  the  devil 
is  after  me.  I  guess  he  's  got  me  already." 

She  sprang  to  the  floor,  combed  her  yellow 
hair,  looked  in  the  dingy  little  glass,  and  ex- 


104  LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE. 

ulted  over  her  own  beauty.  She  arranged  her 
dress  and  ran  down  stairs,  singing  at  the  top  of 
her  voice :  — 

"  Nelly  was  a  lady, 

Last  night  she  died. 
Toll,  toll  the  bell,  for  lovely  Nell, 
My  dark  Virginia  bride." 

As  she  entered  the  kitchen,  Lucy  looked  up 
from  the  stove  to  say,  "  Flit 's  got  away  again." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Eden,  "  I  'm  afraid  Ronian  'ill 
get  hold  of  her.  I  must  go  after  her.  Dear, 
how  hot  the  sun  is  !  " 

She  went  out,  and  when  she  reached  the 
foot  of  the  staircase,  Luke  Gardiner  flung  him- 
self down  from  the  pine-covered  bluff  and  stood 
before. 

"  I  've  been  waitin'  for  you,"  he  said  ;  "  I  got 
off  work  to-day,  on  purpose  to  see  you.  Come 
over  by  the  trench  an'  let  me  talk  with  you." 

She  hesitated,  then  said,  "  Well,  you  go  first, 
I  '11  follow." 

A  few  minutes  later,  Luke  sat  waiting  on  a 
big  stone  close  to  the  water's  edge.  Wide  open 
meadows  stretched  behind  him,  and  at  a  little 
distance  some  fine  oaks  shaded  the  river  into 
which  the  trench  emptied.  The  young  man's 
temper  was  changed  since  morning.  He  no 
longer  felt  defiant,  but  prayerful,  —  praying  God 
to  help  him  save  the  girl  he  loved,  —  for  he  did 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  ,.      105 

love  her  still,  and  when  at  last  he  saw  the  lit- 
tle figure  coming  towards  him,  through  the 
warm  sunlight,  the  sad,  pale  face  looked  so 
lovely  to  him,  that  his  heart  yearned  to  meet 
her. 

"  There  's  the  same  alder  bush,"  he  said 
looking  up,  "  that  was  here  when  we  was  little 
children.  Do  you  mind  how  we  had  a  play 
that  the  fairies  danced  in  its  branches  at  night  ? 
And  look  at  that  bird's  nest.  Do  you  want 
it?" 

He  spoke  softly,  as  if  no  trouble  weighed  on 
the  mind  of  either.  Some  horrible  weight 
seemed  to  roll  off  Eden's  brain,  and  she  felt  old 
memories  rise  in  her  heart,  and  restore  there  a 
sense  of  childish  innocence. 

"  Not  unless  it 's  empty,"  she  said,  leaning 
over  the  water  to  look  into  the  little  swinging 
cradle.  He  knelt  beside  her  and  reached  for 
the  nest,  and  when  he  put  it  in  her  fingers,  he 
looked  straight  in  her  eyes.  She  sank  on  the 
grass,  and  for  a  moment  nothing  outside  them- 
selves seemed  nearer  to  them  than  the  sky. 
Then  he  spoke. 

"  Can't  I  help  you  somehow  ?  When  you 
was  a  little  girl  an'  fell  down,  I  picked  you  up. 
It  hurt  me  more  'n  it  hurt  you.  I  feel  just  the 
same  now.  You  're  in  trouble,  —  you  're  in 
the  way  of  more  trouble.  You  must  know  it 


106  LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE. 

is  n't  a  good  thing  for  you  to  be  at  McCannah's 
house." 

"  Yes,  Luke,  I  know,"  she  said  sobbing,  "but 
Ronian  drove  us  out  in  the  night,  an'  we  had 
to  go  somewheres,  —  an'  Kate  was  good  to  us." 

"  Yes,"  said  he  eagerly,  "  she  is  kind,  but 
can't  you  go  somewheres  else  now?  I  don't 
speak  for  myself,  dear,  tho'  I  love  you  so  much, 
but  I  know  about  Joe  Glancy  and  Lucy,  an' 
why  he  's  so  thick  with  all  them  girls.  It  ain't 
a  fit  place  for  you.  Say,  my  mother  will  take 
you  to  a  cousin  of  hers  in  Fall  River,  you  V 
Flit,  if  you  can't  go  home." 

She  flung  herself  from  him  with  a  low  cry, 
and  hid  her  face  in  the  grass.  He  leaned  over 
her  fallen  head,  till  she  raised  at  last  her  wet 
eyes,  and  whispered,  "  O  Luke,  how  good  you 
are  !  O  Luke,  is  that  what  goodness  is  like  ? 
I  thought  everybody  was  bad  an'  it  did  not 
matter  much  about  me." 

"  Will  you  go  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  '11  do  anything  you  say,"  she  murmured, 
all  broken  in  tears. 

"  You  will  go  to  my  mother's  ?  "  asked  Luke, 
trembling  lest  she  were  not  persuaded  after  all ; 
and  Eden  bowed  the  assent  she  could  not 
speak,  rose  hurriedly,  smoothed  her  disordered 
dress,  and  started  toward  the  village.  She  did 
not  want  to  reveal  her  emotion  more  fully,  and 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  107 

when  he  followed  and  reached  her  side,  she  did 
not  speak.  They  walked  in  silence  through  the 
fields,  and  down  the  road  to  the  river.  They 
passed  the  Stone  house  and  stepped  on  to  the 
bridge.  The  stream  was  walled  in  on  both 
sides,  the  wall  extending  from  the  bridge  to  the 
dam.  On  the  pile  of  stone-work  which  Luke 
and  Eden  were  facing  stood  a  child's  figure. 

"  It 's  Flit,"  cried  Eden. 

As  she  spoke,  the  child  knelt,  and  they 
plainly  saw  her  raise  her  hands  as  if  praying. 
They  ran  forward,  urged  by  a  feeling  of  sudden 
terror,  and  as  they  ran,  Eden  screamed,  for 
after  kneeling  a  moment,  Flit  fell  forward  into 
the  water. 

Immediate  access  to  the  wall  was  cut  off 
from  the  street,  and  to  reach  the  place  after 
crossing  the  river,  it  was  necessary  for  Luke 
and  Eden  to  make  a  short  detour  through  the 
factory  yard.  Before  they  arrived  at  the  spot, 
a  crowd  of  people  had  rushed  from  the  mill, 
and  were  gathered  on  the  narrow  strips  of  earth 
and  masonry  which  divided  the  trench  from 
the  river.  Luke  sprang  on  the  wall,  where 
Flit  had  stood,  flung  off  his  shoes  and  coat,  tied 
a  rope,  which  Joe  Glancy  brought  him,  around 
his*  waist,  and  jumped  into  the  flood.  The 
water  stood  barely  an  inch  above  the  mill-dam, 
and  while  such  a  plunge  required  nerve,  it  in- 


108  LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE. 

volved  no  danger.  Yet  Luke  found  himself 
overcome  by  an  unaccustomed  horror,  as  he 
groped  through  the  deep  blackness,  his  eyes 
wide  open,  his  arms  stretched  before  him,  his 
fingers  clutching  at  objects  on  the  stony  bot- 
tom, with  frantic  haste  feeling  for  little  Flit's 
body.  He  rose  with  empty  hands  to  the  sur- 
face. As  he  lifted  his  pale  face  above  the  cur- 
rent, he  heard  Eden  cry  aloud.  He  swam  to- 
wards the  bridge,  and  was  drawn  up  on  to  the 
ground.  For  a  brief  space  of  time,  he  lay  still, 
panting  hard,  and  then,  knitting  his  brows,  he 
stood  up,  again  knotted  the  rope  about  him, 
walked  back  to  the  place  from  which  he  had 
before  jumped,  and  went  in  again. 

When  he  next  appeared  above  the  slow, 
slippery  current,  he  brought  the  dead  child  with 
him. 

Rough  men  took  it  from  him  and  laid  it  on 
the  ground.  Eden  crouched  sobbing  beside  it. 

"  Oh,  how  pretty  she  is,"  moaned  she. 

Flit  did  indeed  look  very  beautiful,  and  ab- 
solutely serene  in  her  pallid  stillness. 

"  Uncle  John  "  came  into  the  yard,  and  his 
lips  trembled,  as  he  gazed  in  the  quiet  little 
face.  He  put  his  hand  on  Luke's  shoulder, 
and  his  sweet  old  face  worked  as  he  said, 
"  Thee  is  a  good  fellow." 

Somebody   brought   a   shutter,   and   Luke's 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  109 

mother  threw  a  sheet  over  Flit  when  she  was 
placed  upon  the  boards.  The  crowd  formed  it- 
self into  an  irregular  procession.  Luke,  all 
dripping  wet,  walked  beside  Eden,  and  "  uncle 
John  "  followed  the  bearers.  A  bird  twittered 
in  an  elm  tree  as  they  passed  out  of  the  factory 
yard. 

Everybody  halted,  uncertain  what  to  do, 
when  they  arrived  before  the  Stone  house,  on 
whose  walls  the  noon-day  sun  shone  hot  and 
bright.  As  they  waited,  a  woman  came  wearily 
along  the  road. 

"It  's  the  mother,  as  has  been  lookin'  for 
Flit,"  said  lame  Lucy,  who  had  been  drawn  to 
the  factory  yard  by  the  news  of  the  accident, 
and  had  returned  with  the  others  across  the 
stream.  She  ran  forward,  and  caught  Mrs.  Ro- 
man's hands.  "  Oh,  oh,"  she  cried,  "  be  still,  be 
still !  Oh,  do  not  take  on,  but  Flit  is  dead  an' 
gone.  Indeed,  she  's  safe,  the  poor  child." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  shrieked  the  woman. 
She  wrenched  herself  from  the  girl's  grasp, 
threw  up  her  arms,  and  would  have  fallen,  had 
not  Luke  caught  her,  and  from  him  Eden  re- 
ceived her  mother's  head  on  her  knees. 

The  afternoon  wore  away  amid  painful  bustle, 
and  about  sunset,  Eden,  who  had  been  busy  in 
the  house  all  day,  stole  down  to  the  doorway, 
and  stood  there  breathing  the  cool  air  and 


110  LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE. 

pushing  the  tumbling  hair  off  her  forehead. 
Lucy  came  limping  round  the  house  corner 
with  Joe  Glancy.  When  she  saw  them  Eden 
took  from  her  pocket  the  gilt  ear-rings  and 
held  them  out  to  the  man. 

"  Oh,  keep  'em,"  growled  he. 

"  What  for  ? "  she  said,  with  a  wan  smile. 
" To  wear  at  Flit's  funeral? " 

"  Nonsense,"  he  began,  but  Lucy  interrupted, 
"  Are  n't  you  ashamed  to  bother  her  now  ?  " 

He  took  hold  of  the  lame  girl's  arm  so 
roughly  that  he  almost  shook  her. 

"  Keep  quiet,  I  tell  you." 

Eden  pushed  the  ornaments  into  his  hand. 
He  dropped  them  on  the  ground  and  trod  on 
them. 

"  You  'd  better  not  throw  me  over,"  said  he. 
" Gardiner  '11  never  marry  you  now" 

Eden  whirled  about  and  went  into  the  house. 
He  turned  to  Lucy  angrily. 

"  You  've  cheated  me,"  he  said ;  "  you  've  got 
Luke  to  make  up  with  her." 

Lucy  had,  in  truth,  seen  Luke  early  that 
morning,  and  had  told  him  that  Eden  was  in- 
nocent of  any  intention  to  carouse  the  previous 
night,  and  had  begged  him  to  be  gentle  with 
her.  She  trembled  now  and  grew  white. 

"  You  need  n't  think  it  '11  do  you  any  good," 
he  growled,  "  I  'm  sick  to  death  of  you." 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  HI 

She  drew  a  quick  sobbing  breath  and  moved 
her  hands  feebly  and  beseechingly  towards  him. 
"  I  never  trouble  you,"  she  said,  "  I  never  say 
nothin'  when  you  go  with  Kate  nor  Ann  Sim- 
mons, nor  none  of  'em.  But  Eden  ain't  like 
them  girls.  It  seemed  too  bad  as  harm  should 
come  to  her." 

"  Just  you  shut  up,"  he  said,  and  swearing 
low,  left  her. 

She  seated  herself  wearily  on  the  door-step, 
and  watched  him  go  with  eyes  that  changed 
from  anger  to  pain.  She  did  not  regret  what 
she  had  done,  but  her  heart  was  heavy.  She 
felt  a  sort  of  wonder  how  it  would  seem  to  be 
as  innocent  as  Eden  was.  Evil  had  been  in  her 
life  so  long !  When  did  it  first  come  ?  She  was 
not  wholly  sure  she  had  ever  been  quite  igno- 
rant and  pure.  She  wondered  again  what  it 
would  be  like.  Lucy  had  often  been  heart-sick 
before,  but  never  so  sick  of  her  own  heart  as 
now. 

Bare,  desolate  poverty  settled  on  the  family 
after  Flit's  funeral.  Ronian  was  still  unable 
to  work.  The  store-keeper  would  not  give 
credit  beyond  the  amount  of  Eden's  wages, 
and  there  were  many  things  needed.  There 
was  no  question  now  of  her  going  away  from 
the  village.  She  did  not  even  think  of  leaving 
her  mother  and  the  children.  They  were  so 
poor  that  sometimes  she  was  hungry.  They 


112  LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE. 

sold  some  of  their  furniture  to  pay  the  under- 
taker, and  Eden  slept  on  the  floor  with  her 
little  brother  and  sister.  She  rose  in  the  morn- 
ing tired  as  when  she  went  to  bed  at  night. 

Luke  watched  her  from  afar  with  a  swelling 
heart.  His  mother  could  hardly  reconcile  her- 
self to  the  idea  that  he  would  finally  marry  her, 
but  tried  to  make  herself  contented  with  the 
thought  of  such  a  future.  She,  however,  pre- 
vailed upon  him  to  wait  till  it  became  evident 
that  Eden  could  keep  to  her  good  resolutions. 
The  girl  herself  cherished  no  hope  that  he 
would  ever  come  to  her  as  a  lover,  but  she 
made  a  sort  of  religion  out  of  the  memory  of 
his  great  goodness  to  her,  in  the  hour  of  her 
temptation,  a  religion  which  strengthened  her 
daily,  as  she  avoided  all  her  former  comrades 
in  frivolity. 

Once  she  met  Lucy  on  the  street  and  said  to 
her,  "  Don't  think  hard  of  me  for  not  comin'  to 
see  you  no  more  ;  "  and  the  lame  girl  answered, 
"  You  'd  better  not  come  to  our  house,  but  I 
stand  up  for  you  everywhere." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  other,  "an'  I'll 
stand  by  you,  if  ever  you  want  me." 

One  Sunday  evening  in  October,  Eden  knelt 
by  the  little  white  cross  that  marked  Flit's 
grave.  When  she  raised  her  eyes,  Joe  Glancy 
stood  beside  her.  He  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  to  hold  her  down. 


LUKE  GARDINER'S  LOVE.  113 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  cried. 

When  she  divined  rather  than  heard  his 
answer,  she  struggled  away,  flying  blindly, 
stumbling  among  the  graves.  He  followed  her 
quickly,  but  when  she  neared  the  gate,  she  saw 
Luke  Gardiner,  and  ran  to  him,  calling  his 
name.  He  took  her  panting  in  his  arms.  The 
overseer's  lip  curled.  "  Ah,"  said  he,  "  where  's 
the  virtue  in  running  from  one  man  to  an- 
other?" Luke  sprang  at  him,  but  Eden  held  him 
back,  and  Joe  walked  away,  sneering  again, 

"  Oh,  I  won't  interfere.    I  give  my  notice." 

Luke  led  the  trembling  girl  to  one  of  the  low 
graves  and  seated  her  there. 

"  I  did  follow  you,"  he  said.  "  I  wanted  to 
ask  you  to  marry  me." 

"  Oh,  I  'in  not  good  enough." 

"  I  think  you  are." 

"I  never  did  no  very  bad  thing,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  was  silly,  an'  I  've  been  talked  about. 
You  can't  feel  the  same  as  if  I  was  real  re- 
spected by  folks." 

"  What  I  feel  is,"  said  he,  "  that  you  're  the 
nicest  girl  I  know." 

Then  she  nestled  in  his  arms,  quite  over- 
come, and  murmured,  "  O  Luke,  you  don't 
know  how  hard  I  '11  try  to  be  good." 

"  Well,  then  I  guess  you  '11  make  out  to  do," 
he  said,  laughing,  as  he  kissed  her. 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 


JOSIB  WELCH  was  six  years  old,  and  her 
brother  Tommy  was  eight,  at  the  time  their 
mother  became  a  widow.  Mrs.  Welch  worked 
in  a  cotton  factory.  She  rose  at  half-past  five 
in  the  morning,  lit  a  hasty  fire  in  the  kitchen, 
made  some  tea  which  she  drank,  and  put  some 
bread  and  butter  on  the  table.  In  cold  weather, 
she  arranged  the  fire  so  that  it  would  keep  as 
long  as  possible,  and  left  in  the  kitchen  a  small 
supply  of  fuel,  before  hurrying  away  to  her 
work. 

An  hour  or  two  later,  Tommy,  who  was  a 
methodical  little  soul,  routed  his  sister  and  him- 
self out  of  bed,  when,  without  washing,  they 
fell  upon  the  bread  and  butter  and  devoured  it. 
They  then  dressed  themselves  quite  leisurely, 
although  their  toilet  was  a  meagre  one  and  in- 
cluded very  little  in  the  way  of  ablutions.  Af- 
terwards, Tommy  took  some  more  bread  and 
butter  and  carried  it  into  the  mill  to  his  mother, 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.  115 

for  her  breakfast.  At  the  same  time  lie  took 
her  a  tin  pail,  filled  the  night  before.  She 
warmed  the  contents  of  this  on  the  steam-pipes 
in  the  mill,  and  at  twelve  o'clock  the  children 
came  to  the  factory  and  shared  with  her  this 
made-over  dinner,  since  the  brief  "  nooning " 
did  not  give  Mrs.  Welch  time  to  go  home  and 
warm  her  dinner  there.  A  neighbor,  at  the 
widow's  request,  used  to  go  into  the  house  in 
the  afternoon  and  replenish  the  fire,  that  the 
place  might  be  warm  when  the  children  came 
home  from  school. 

Tommy  and  Josie  went  pretty  regularly  to 
school  in  cold  weather,  because  it  was  warmer 
there  than  at  home,  where  the  fire  often  lan- 
guished under  their  inexperienced  care,  and 
sometimes  died  out  entirely  before  the  neighbor 
came.  It  was  a  chance  whether  she  found  it 
choked  with  ashes  and  injudicious  feeding,  or 
whether  the  fuel  provided  in  the  morning  had 
proved  insufficient  to  sustain  it  through  so  many 
hours.  Mrs.  Welch's  bills  became  too  large  for 
her  earnings,  if  she  allowed  the  children  to  have 
free  access  to  the  shed  where  the  coal  was  kept, 
so  its  door  was  locked  and  the  neighbor  had  the 
key.  Frequently  the  little  lad  and  his  sister 
gathered  sticks  in  a  pine  grove  hard  by,  or 
picked  up  shiny  lumps  of  coal  that  were  scat- 
tered near  the  railroad  station,  and  they  burned 


116       THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

the  material  thus  procured  with  gay  hearts  and 
bursts  of  happy  laughter.  Doubtless,  if  they 
had  not  had  the  usual  childish  habit  of  accept- 
ing all  events  unthinkingly,  they  would  have 
been  very  sure  that  it  was  the  good  God,  or  may 
be,  even  the  mother  of  God  herself,  who  made 
men  always  spill  fuel  when  loading  and  unload- 
ing coal  cars. 

There  were  many  kind  people  in  the  village, 
who  welcomed  the  shivering  little  creatures  to 
their  own  firesides,  in  those  families  whose  pros- 
perity permitted  that  the  mother  or  some  elder 
daughter  should  stay  at  home  from  the  mill. 

At  night,  Mrs.  Welch  came  home,  gave  the 
children  their  supper,  swept,  cleaned,  washed 
dishes  and  clothes,  cooked  far  into  the  night, 
and  then  lay  down  for  a  few  hours  of  heavy 
sleep. 

Tommy  and  Josie  were  as  good  children  as 
could  be  expected  under  the  circumstances ;  but 
Josie  had,  even  then,  a  restless  and  excitable 
organization.  In  a  happier  home  her  peculiari- 
ties would  perhaps  have  been  carefully  studied, 
and  all  this  fine,  nervous  force  might  have  been 
trained  and  utilized.  But  Josie  belonged  to  a 
stratum  of  society  far  below  those  in  which  ex- 
ists the  practice  of  such  study  and  consideration. 
She  often  ran  away  from  home  and  school,  and 
got  herself  into  endless  scrapes. 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.         ,      117 

A  year  or  more  of  this  sort  of  life  had  passed 
when  Mrs.  Welch  suddenly  died.  Her  hus- 
band's brother  took  the  children.  Tommy  pros- 
pered in  his  new  home.  He  was  well-grown 
and  strong,  and  having  nearly  attained  the  age 
at  which  the  law  would  permit  him  to  be  put  at 
work  in  the  mill,  his  uncle  took  him  to  the  over- 
seer, said  he  was  old  enough,  and  obtained  em- 
ployment for  him.  The  child's  wages  were  a 
welcome  addition  to  the  family  income  ;  indeed, 
a  necessary  addition,  in  view  of  the  two  extra 
mouths  that  were  now  to  be  fed,  and  the  uncle 
considered  the  lie  he  had  told  to  be  dazzling  in 
its  whiteness. 

Josie,  meanwhile,  did  not  prosper  in  the  keep- 
ing of  her  aunt.  She  did  not  love  to  tend  the 
babies.  There  were  a  pair  of  twins,  and  two 
other  round,  red-headed,  pale-faced  little  ones 
under  three  years  old,  who  fell  largely  to  poor 
Josie's  care.  She  was  not  cross  to  them,  but 
she  did  not  enjoy  the  labors  imposed  on  her. 

She  hated  to  wash  dishes,  with  a  hatred  as 
intense  as,  and  perhaps  not  really  more  culpable 
than,  that  which  is  felt  for  this  task  by  some 
more  fortunate  daughters  of  our  common  race. 
She  did  not  enjoy  the  restrictions  suddenly 
placed  about  her.  They  irked  her  greatly  after 
the  free  street  life  she  had  led  while  her  mother 
lived. 


118      THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

Josie  had  the  instincts  that  in  higher  ranks  of 
society  are  called  Bohemian,  and  for  which  our 
many-sided  civilization  now  begins  to  find  re- 
spectable chance  for  action.  In  the  lower  strata 
of  this  civilization,  however,  the  pressure  of  cir- 
cumstances is  so  great  that  it  bears  down  heav- 
ily on  all  such  instincts,  and  frequently  crushes 
and  distorts  them  till  they  become  impulses  to- 
wards crime  and  outrage.  The  conscientious 
student  of  the  forces  in  nature  and  character 
which  shape  or  deform  social  life  must  often 
halt  between  two  opinions,  uncertain  whether 
the  sovereign  remedy  for  many  of  the  ills  from 
which  humanity  suffers  would  be  more  liberty 
or  more  restraint. 

It  is  the  old  problem  which  besets  also  the 
individual  life.  Are  obstacles  set  in  our  way 
to  warn  us  back  from  any  special  path,  or  that 
we  may  grow  stronger  by  overcoming  them  as 
we  go  forward?  Some  there  are  who  may  de- 
cide whether  they  will  go  back  or  go  on.  Men 
and  women  who  labor  eleven  hours  a  day  in  the 
stifling  air  of  a  great  factory  have  limitations  to 
their  freedom  of  will.  Those  men  must  eat  and 
sleep  away  most  of  their  leisure  hours.  Those 
women  must  often  toil  on  in  the  home  after  the 
mill  work  is  done.  They  cannot  spend  time  and 
money  to  go  out  in  search  of  healthful  recrea- 
tion. The  devil  surrounds  them  with  sensual 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.      119 

enjoyments  only.  Their  jaded  nerves  respond 
most  readily  to  such,  and  in  factory  villages  but 
little  effort  is  made,  by  what  calls  itself  Chris- 
tianity, to  compete  with  Satan  in  his  struggles 
for  souls,  or  to  prove  his  choice  of  pleasures  an 
unwise  one  to  the  multitude. 

So,  in  her  new  surroundings,  Josie  fared  ill, 
and  looked  forward,  in  her  childish  brain,  to 
faring  worse. 

Perhaps,  under  the  best  influences,  her  nature 
might  have  been  morally  weak.  At  any  rate, 
unmoulded  by  such  influences,  she  experienced 
no  dutiful  desires  to  grow  older,  take  her  place 
in  the  factory,  and  do  her  part  towards  the  sup- 
port of  herself  and  of  her  uncle's  numerous  prog- 
eny. She  ran  away  very  frequently,  and  would 
stay  away  for  hours  and  cause  endless  trouble. 
Finally,  one  morning  she  disappeared  and  was 
not  found  till  the  next  day.  The  child  had  not 
yet  got  into  any  real  harm,  but  she  was  cer- 
tainly on  the  right  road  to  ruin. 

Her  aunt,  scandalized,  provoked,  and  worn 
out,  complained  of  her,  had  her  arrested,  poor 
little  mite,  taken  before  a  magistrate,  and  sen- 
tenced to  the  Reform  School.  It  was  thus  that, 
when  she  was  ten  years  old,  this  unfortunate 
waif  became  the  child  of  the  State. 

The  institution  in  which  Josie  found  herself 
usually  contained  about  a  hundred  boys,  and 


120       THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

from  thirty  to  fifty  girls,  from  seven  or  eight 
years  old  to  twenty.  The  girls  were  sent  there 
for  all  offenses,  short  of  flagrant  crime,  which 
girls  can  commit.  There  was  very  little  effort 
made  at  this  time  to  classify  or  separate  the  older 
and  more  depraved  inmates  from  those  childish 
sinners  who  had  drifted  thither  from  sheer  ill 
luck  rather  than  through  any  fault  of  their  own. 
At  a  later  period,  it  became  the  custom,  in  that 
State,  to  send  to  an  institution  designed  more 
especially  for  such  characters  all  girls  over  six- 
teen arrested  for  certain  vices.  When  Josie 
Welch  entered  the  Reform  School,  such  offend- 
ers, if  under  twenty,  were  often  confined  there, 
to  spread  the  contagion  of  their  own  polluted 
lives  among  the  younger  children.  Yet  among 
these  little  ones,  even,  were  sometimes  to  be 
found  strange  and  abnormal  tendencies  to  evil, 
developed,  generally,  by  an  utterly  uncared-for 
childhood. 

Josie  was  but  an  innocent,  excitable,  restless 
child,  with  no  moral  training,  when  she  was 
dropped  into  this  hot-bed  of  vice.  What  were 
the  means  which  the  State  provided  to  cure 
these  soul-sick  little  children  ?  An  account  of 
the  daily  routine  of  the  school  will  suffice  to 
tell  the  story  of  several  years  of  Josie's  life. 

The  girls  rose  at  five.  Their  sleeping  accom- 
modations were  pretty  good,  since  never  more 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.       121 

than  two  occupied  a  room  together,  and  in  some 
cases  separate  apartments  were  provided.  Noth- 
ing can  be  said  in  praise  of  the  arrangements 
for  bathing. 

At  half-past  five  the  girls  went  to  school, 
sleepy  and  hungry.  In  the  summer  it  was  not 
so  bad,  with  the  dawning  light  shining  through 
the  eastern  windows  and  waking  them  up ;  but 
in  winter  doors  and  windows  were  shut,  because 
the  room  was  never  very  warm  at  that  hour, 
the  atmosphere  was  both  chilly  and  close,  and 
the  children  were  stupid  with  sleepiness.  At 
seven,  the  girls  went  to  breakfast.  At  eight, 
they  began  to  work.  The  older  ones  did  the 
housework.  One  or  two  servants  were  employed 
in  the  immediate  family  of  the  superintendent, 
but  all  the  rest  of  the  work  in  that  immense  es- 
tablishment, except,  of  course,  the  actual  care 
of  the  part  of  the  house  which  was  occupied  by 
the  boys,  was  done  by  the  girls.  The  little 
children,  and  such  of  the  larger  ones  as  were 
not  needed  in  the  other  household  departments, 
sewed  and  knit. 

Although  families  are  naturally,  and  often 
rightly,  unwilling  to  take  into  service  girls  who 
have  spent  their  minority  in  a  Reform  School, 
the  state  had  these  girls  taught  to  do  well  noth- 
ing but  domestic  labor ;  the  sewing  and  knit- 
ting which  they  learned  being  too  coarse  to 


122  THE  CHILD  OF   THE  STATE. 

avail  them  afterwards  in  the  effort  to  support 
themselves.  The  boys  in  the  Reform  School 
which  we  are  describing  are  taught  a  trade. 
The  girls  are  only  qualified  to  do  housework ; 
but  at  the  expiration  of  their  terms  it  is  diffi- 
cult for  them  to  obtain  places  in  families,  and 
they  are  generally  so  demoralized  that  they 
cannot  safely  be  admitted  to  households  where 
there  are  children. 

To  return  to  the  daily  routine.  The  girls 
had  a  short  recess  in  the  forenoon,  just  long 
enough  for  them  to  move  about  a  little,  or,  if 
they  wished,  to  run  out-of-doors.  At  noon 
they  had  dinner,  and  then  began  work  again, 
which  lasted  till  the  supper  hour  at  four.  They 
had  nothing  to  eat  afterwards.  At  five  they 
went  into  school  again,  and  remained  there  till 
seven  ;  and  then  they  were  sent  to  bed.  Thus 
all  their  schooling  came  between  supper  and 
breakfast,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the  day's 
work. 

Josie  did  not  learn  much  at  school.  She 
hated  it,  and  she  hated  the  long  whitewashed 
corridors,  and  the  little  cooped-up  yard  where 
all  the  drying  of  clothes  for  the  whole  establish- 
ment was  done,  so  that  the  girls  could  seldom 
move  freely  about  in  it. 

The  boys  had  a  large  play-ground.  Josie 
could  see  it  through  a  knot-hole  she  discovered 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.  123 

in  the  fence.  This  knot-hole  was  her  own 
peculiar  property,  her  one  great  possession  and 
secret.  She  told  none  of  the  other  girls  about 
it.  She  seldom  looked  through  it  lest  they 
should  see  her.  It  was  half  hidden  by  one  of 
the  posts  to  the  fence.  The  poor  child  had  a 
great  pride  in  this  little  secret  of  hers,  and 
never  dreamed  what  a  fatal  thing  this  knot- 
hole, with  its  outlook  on  forbidden  grounds, 
was  yet  to  be  to  her. 

Josie  hated  the  slow  pace  at  which  she  al- 
ways felt  obliged  to  walk  about  the  house  and 
yard.  The  girls  never  ran  there.  The  boys, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  fence,  ran  and  tumbled 
each  other  about  and  shouted ;  but  the  girls, 
on  their  side,  were  always  silent  and  slow  of 
motion  and  sad  of  face,  except  when  they 
quarreled  among  themselves.  Even  Josie,  young 
as  she  was,  felt  that  a  doom  was  on  them  all, 
and  could  perceive  the  settled  hopelessness 
which  brooded  over  the  faces  of  all  the  girls, 
whether  they  were  otherwise  bright  or  stupid. 

One  day  a  lady  came  to  visit  the  school,  and 
brought  her  dainty  little  daughter  with  her.  As 
they  stood  in  the  hall,  Josie  came  in  from 
recess. 

The  two  children  stared,  open-eyed,  at  each 
other.  The  fair,  curled  darling  of  her  mother 
looked  at  the  close-cropped  head,  the  dark,  wild 


124  THE  CHILD   OF  THE  STATE. 

eyes,  the  sulky  mouth,  of  the  child  of  the  State. 
Then,  with  a  little  pout  of  aversion  and  fear, 
the  golden-haired  one  turned  away,  and  an 
angry  look  came  into  Josie's  face. 

The  mother,  bending  over  her  darling,  coaxed 
and  murmured  to  her  a  moment,  till  the  little 
one  turned  back,  ran  towards  Josie,  and  with  a 
sweet  smile,  pushed  into  her  hand  a  tiny  china 
doll,  new  that  day  and  not  yet  dressed. 

Josie  took  it  awkwardly,  but  looked  her 
wonder  and  delight,  till  the  matron  who  stood 
near  bade  her  thank  the  lady  and  the  little 
girl ;  at  which  Josie,  overcome  with  bashful- 
ness,  fled  away  to  the  sewing-room,  tightly 
clutching  her  doll.  The  matron  would  have 
followed  and  forced  her  to  return,  had  not  the 
lady  mother  interposed  a  smiling  plea  for  the 
childish  terror  she  well  understood.  Neverthe- 
less, Josie  was  held  for  several  days  in  high 
disgrace,  and  was  frequently  reminded  of  her 
bad  manners  "  to  that  kind  lady  and  sweet  lit- 
tle girl."  She  was  rather  sorry  when  she  re- 
flected on  her  behavior,  but  she  consoled  her- 
self by  petting  and  playing  with  her  doll,  and 
teaching  to  it  the  polite  methods  of  action  in 
which  she  herself  had  failed. 

She  was  very  much  afraid  that  the  doll 
would  take  cold,  as  it  had  no  clothes,  and  she 
tore  off  a  strip  from  her  only  flannel  petticoat 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.       125 

in  which  to  wrap  it.  She  was  very  happy 
when,  soon  after  this,  the  day  came  for  sorting 
over  the  rags  of  the  household. 

All  the  rags  which  accumulated  in  the  estab- 
lishment through  the  year  were  stuffed  into 
great  bags  kept  in  the  attic.  These  bags  were 
brought  down  annually  into  the  room  which 
served  as  school  and  sewing-room.  They  were 
emptied  on  the  floor,  and  the  girls  picked  them 
over  and  sorted  out  the  woolen  and  cotton 
pieces.  The  poor  creatures  enjoyed  this  work 
hugely,  with  the  break  it  made  in  the  daily 
routine.  Smiles  lit  up  their  heavy  faces,  and 
a  visitor  on  that  day  might  have  been  beguiled 
into  a  belief  that  the  inmates  of  this  Reform 
School  were  tolerably  happy. 

Josie's  vagabond  instincts  reveled  in  this 
companionship  of  rags.  She  made  precious 
discoveries  in  these  motley  heaps,  such  discov- 
eries as  can  be  made  only  by  the  eyes  of  child- 
hood. 

Here  she  found  a  bit  of  bright,  new  calico. 
How  it  contrasted  with  her  own  dingy,  oft- 
washed,  and  faded  gown!  What  tales  it  seemed 
to  tell  the  child,  whispering  of  possible  luxury 
and  of  new  dresses  !  —  forever  unattainable  by 
her.  Now  she  came  across  a  tiny  bit  of  red 
silk,  and  now  a  faded  blue  necktie  was  dis- 
cerned among  the  rough  de'bris  of  half  a  dozen 
gray  cloth  jackets,  such  as  the  boys  wore. 


126       THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

Josie's  soul  burned  within  her.  Her  little 
heart  throbbed  with  longing.  She  thought  of 
her  gownless  doll,  and  she  grew  bold.  She 
went  up  to  the  matron  in  charge,  and  asked 
her  if  she  might  have  some  of  these  little  pieces 
for  herself.  Fortunately,  the  matron  did  not 
know  that  the  child  had  torn  her  petticoat,  and 
was  so  touched  by  the  seeming  honesty  of  this 
petition  that  she  gave  permission,  but  told  the 
little  girl  to  bring  for  her  inspection  all  that  she 
wanted.  Poor  Josie  brought  so  many  that  the 
matron,  fearful  of  giving  her  too  great  happi- 
ness, was  forced  to  tell  her  to  select  six  pieces 
and  put  the  others  in  the  common  stock. 

Such  a  time  as  the  little  girl  had  to  choose  ! 
But  at  last  she  heaved  a  great  sigh  of  mingled 
satisfaction  and  regret  that  the  pleasant  but 
puzzling  task  of  choice  was  over.  As  she  did 
so  she  heard  some  one  speak  to  her,  and  look- 
ing up  she  saw  with  affright  the  superintendent 
of  the  school  standing  by  her.  He  was  an  im- 
mense man,  with  an  oily  smile  which  played 
over  a  cruel  mouth.  Josie's  fears  were  assuaged 
a  little  when  she  perceived  that  the  voice  which 
had  addressed  her  came  not  from  him,  but  from 
the  lips  of  a  lady  by  his  side,  —  a  lady  with  a 
tender  face  and  sweet,  deep  eyes. 

She  bent  over  the  startled  child,  and  asked 
her  gently  what  she  meant  to  do  with  those 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.       127 

bits  of  cloth.  Josie  stammered  something  about 
dressing  her  doll.  The  lady  smiled  pleasantly, 
but  the  matron  drawing  near  said  that  Josie 
would  have  to  pay  more  attention  to  her  sewing 
in  the  school  before  she  would  be  able  to  sew 
very  well  for  herself.  Josie  shrank  away,  sat 
down  by  a  heap  of  rags,  and  turned  it  over 
with  her  little  hands. 

The  lady  looked  at  the  soft,  wild  eyes  of  the 
child  till  a  moist  tenderness  came  into  her  own, 
and  turning  suddenly  away  she  walked  out  into 
the  corridor,  and  stood  gazing  out  of  the  win- 
dow over  the  yard,  where  the  girls  could  not 
play  because  it  was  filled  with  clothes  hung  out 
to  dry. 

The  superintendent  followed  her,  and  com- 
ing up  said  blandly,  "  You  have  now  seen  the 
whole  of  the  institution,  Mrs.  Keyes." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  absently ;  then,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  she  spoke  quickly :  "  And  I 
have  seen  many  others  like  it.  I  have  spent 
ten  years  studying  the  classes  from  which  our 
reform  schools,  our  houses  of  correction,  and 
our  jails  are  filled,  and  this  is  my  conviction : 
that  you  take  the  children  who  are  the  worst 
born  and  bred  in  the  world,  and  put  them 
under  circumstances  which  would  render  des- 
perate, and  consequently  depraved,  the  best 
natures  you  could  find.  Your  system  is  a  fail- 
ure, and  you  know  it  is." 


128      THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

The  eyes  of  the  superintendent  contracted 
savagely  for  an  instant.  Then  he  said,  as 
mildly  as  ever,  "  On  the  contrary,  madam,  a 
large  proportion  of  the  boys  who  leave  this 
school  go  to  earning  their  living  honestly,  and 
lead  respectable  lives." 

"And  the  girls?" 

"  Oh,  the  girls  !  Well  —  the  girls  are  a  great 
deal  worse.  Women  always  are  worse  than 
men,  you  know,  when  they  are  bad.  There 's 
a  peculiar  devil  in  women,  somehow,  begging 
your  pardon." 

"  You  mean  that  you  do  not  reform  the 
girls,"  said  the  lady,  curtly. 

"  No ;  there  is  no  possibility  of  reforming 
the  girls.  It  is  merely  a  house  of  correction 
for  them,  and  serves  a  very  good  purpose  in 
keeping  them  out  of  mischief  for  a  few  years, 
at  least." 

"  And  you  only  reform  more  boys  than 
girls,"  said  Mrs.  Keyes,  with  some  indignant 
passion  in  her  voice,  "  because  you  don't  under- 
take to  cure  the  boys  of  certain  faults.  It  is 
no  matter  when  they  go  out  into  the  world, 
whether  they  have  or  have  not  these  vices. 
They  are  called  reformed,  if  they  will  work. 
That  is  all.  No,  there  is  another  reason  why 
you  reform  more  boys.  You  treat  them  better, 
with  more  respect,  and  thus  you  inculcate  self- 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.  129 

respect  in  them.  You  teach  them  a  useful 
trade.  You  give  them  a  decent  yard  to  play 
in.  You  give  them  good  seats  at  chapel.  But 
what  do  you  give  to  the  girls  to  reform  them  ? 
Vacant  minds,  a  dismal  present,  and  despair 
for  the  future.  There 's  a  peculiar  devil  in 
women,  is  there?  You  remember  what  the 
Bible  says.  You  may  sweep  that  chamber 
empty  of  devils  as  many  times  as  you  please, 
and  they  will  come  back,  if  you  put  nothing 
else  in  their  place.  Take  that  child,  in  there, 
who  had  the  rags  for  her  doll.  Anybody  can 
see  what  a  nervous,  impressible,  restless  crea- 
ture she  is.  If  she  is  chained  down  to  this  life 
of  hopeless  monotony,  without  change  and 
without  chance,  of  course  her  feverish  feelings 
will  find  an  outlet  in  some  wrong  way." 

The  superintendent's  face  had  grown  black 
with  anger  as  the  lady  went  vehemently  on,  un- 
heeding his  wrath,  and  he  spoke  quickly  and 
irritably :  "  They  find  it  now.  She 's  one  of 
the  worst  and  most  unmanageable  children  we 
have  in  the  school." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it.  What  was  she  sent  here 
for?" 

"  For  running  away  from  home." 

"  Poor  little  thing  I  Mr.  Brewster,  why 
should  n't  you  take  these  girls  out,  one  or  two 
at  a  time,  once  in  a  while,  to  walk,  as  a  reward 
9 


130       THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

of  good  behavior  ?  You  'd  see  if  they  would  n't 
try  to  earn  the  privilege." 

Whether  the  superintendent's  anger  would, 
at  this  juncture,  have  overcome  his  politeness, 
it  is  impossible  to  say,  for  just  then  he  was 
called  off  by  one  of  the  officers  to  attend  to  some 
new  guests,  and  Mrs.  Keyes,  meanwhile,  having 
finished  her  visit,  went  her  way  sorrowfully  and 
indignantly. 

When  the  superintendent  had  finished  with 
the  later  visitors  he  returned  to  the  sewing- 
room  and  ordered  Josie  to  put  her  cherished 
rags  among  the  others.  The  child,  in  a  furious 
passion,  refused  to  do  so.  The  matron  inter- 
posed, rather  fearfully.  Mr.  Brewster  seized 
what  pieces  he  could  discover  on  the  struggling 
girl's  person,  threw  them  into  the  general  heap, 
and  then  dragged  Josie  away  to  one  of  the  dor. 
mitories,  where  she  was  locked  up  for  the  rest 
of  the  day.  She  had,  however,  saved  the  blue 
necktie  and  a  couple  of  bits  of  calico ;  and  after 
she  had  regained  her  freedom  she  clothed  her 
doll  with  these. 

A  few  days  later  the  torn  state  of  her  petti- 
coat was  discovered,  and  the  missing  fragment 
of  flannel  was  traced  to  her  doll's  wardrobe. 
Josie  managed  to  secrete  and  save  the  doll  in 
the  storm  that  followed,  but  she  herself  suffered 
fresh  disgrace  and  punishment.  Her  character 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.       131 

seemed  somewhat  altered  after  this,  and  there 
were  signs  of  desperation  in  her  moods. 

After  Josie  had  been  in  the  Reform  School  a 
year  or  two,  she  was  taken  out  by  a  farmer's 
wife  to  help  take  care  of  the  babies  of  the  fam- 
ily. She  could  be  returned  at  any  time  when 
Mrs.  Faber  saw  fit.  This  was  a  happy,  health- 
ful season  in  Josie's  life.  She  went  to  school 
part  of  the  time,  she  tended  the  baby,  she 
washed  the  dishes,  and  she  rambled  over  the 
farm  so  much  that  she  did  not  care  to  run  away. 
But  after  a  year  and  a  half  of  this  pleasant  life, 
Mrs.  Faber's  oldest  daughter  came  home  from 
school  to  stay,  and  the  mother  had  no  more  need 
of  the  services  of  the  little  alien. 

The  next  place  to  which  she  was  sent  was  in 
the  city,  and  she  did  not  do  well  there.  At 
Mrs.  Faber's  she  had  been  treated  as  a  child  of 
the  house  might  have  been.  Here  she  was  only 
a  servant,  and  one  to  be  specially  watched  and 
suspected,  because  she  came  from  the  Reform 
School.  She  soon  merited  all  this  suspicion, 
and  in  six  months  she  was  returned  to  the  school 
with  a  character  which  caused  the  superintend- 
ent and  teachers  to  watch  her  in  their  turn. 

When  she  was  fifteen  she  was  once  more 
launched  out  in  life.  Again  she  had  a  place  on 
a  farm.  It  was  one  of  those  sterile,  hilly  farms 
which  abound  in  New  England,  where  rocky 


132      THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

pastures  afford  a  scanty  sustenance  to  the  few 
cattle  or  sheep  that  wander  among  their  gray, 
stony  hillocks,  and  where  huckleberry  bushes 
grow  in  rampant  profusion.  There  were  old  or- 
chards scattered  about,  where  gnarled  and  aged 
apple-trees  sprouted  innumerable  new  shoots, 
which  no  careful  hand  ever  pruned  away.  They 
were  dark,  twisted,  uncanny  trees,  that  in  the 
spring-time  of  "  apple  years "  burst  forth  into 
strange  beauty,  when  rose-tinted  blossoms  cov- 
ered every  living  twig  and  branch,  and  threw 
into  dark  shadow  the  dead,  massive  limbs  that 
coiled  about  among  the  flowers,  themselves  un- 
garnished  by  green  leaf,  pink  bud,  or  full  white 
bloom. 

But  it  was  not  in  the  beauty  of  the  spring- 
time that  Josie  came  into  the  country.  It  was 
in  the  autumn,  when  golden-rod  waved  in  every 
nook  and  cranny  of  the  stony  fields,  and  lined 
the  wild,  wandering  roads  with  glory.  Far 
around  stretched  blue  hills  drenched  deep  with 
color  in  the  autumnal  haze,  and  the  roads  that 
traversed  the  valley  and  climbed  the  distant 
slopes  seemed  to  lead  straight  up  to  heaven. 

Josie  was  driven  to  the  farm-house  in  the 
market-wagon  in  which  Mr.  Jacobs  had  come  to 
the  school  for  her.  Arrived  at  their  destina- 
tion, she  got  out  and  meekly  followed  her  new 
master  into  the  kitchen. 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.       133 

Mrs.  Jacobs  stood  by  the  stove,  frying  dough- 
nuts, and  just  as  she  turned  round  to  look  Josie 
over,  the  door  from  the  woodshed  beyond  the 
kitchen  opened,  and  a  tall  young  fellow  came 
in.  His  eyes  fell  on  Josie,  and  she  returned 
his  glance  boldly  for  a  moment ;  then  her  lids 
drooped  shyly,  and  she  stood  staring  at  the 
floor,  while  Mrs.  Jacobs,  the  farmer,  and  the 
young  man  all  brutally  inspected  her.  Alas  1 
Josie  had  not  been  educated  in  a  school  of  re- 
finement, and  Charley  Manton's  rude  gaze 
charmed  while  it  abashed  her. 

What  need  to  tell  the  story  of  the  weeks  that 
followed?  Flossy  Jacobs,  a  colorless  blonde, 
was  in  love  with  Charley  Manton,  and  had  fan- 
cied her  passion  returned  —  as  probably  it  was 
—  till  this  girl  from  the  Reform  School  crossed 
their  path. 

Charley  was  a  minister's  son,  an  orphan,  now 
working  for  his  boafd  on  Mr.  Jacob's  farm. 
He  was  only  eighteen,  but  he  had  lived  a  long 
life  already  ;  familiar  with  vice,  he  still  paused 
on  the  threshold  of  crime.  Some  sudden  fancy, 
perhaps  for  Flossy  Jacobs's  blue  eyes,  had 
prompted  him  to  spend  these  weeks  of  the  har- 
vest season  in  honest  labor ;  but  he  had  begun 
to  tire  of  it,  and  he  had  wild  visions  of  an  ad- 
venturous career  in  California  or  Mexico,  upon 
which  he  meant  soon  to  enter.  He  was  cruelly 


134       TEE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

selfish,  but  he  possessed  all  the  charm  which 
sometimes  belongs  to  strong,  heartless  natures. 

I  never  saw  Josie  Welch  but  once,  and  it  was 
about  this  time.  She  was  hardly  full  grown, 
but  she  had  a  lithe,  graceful  form,  masses  of 
dark,  waving  hair,  good  features  and  complex- 
ion, cheeks  and  chin  rounded,  and  lips  a  little 
full.  Out  from  this  immature,  girlish  face 
looked  the  saddest,  softest,  wildest  dark  eyes  I 
ever  saw.  They  haunted  me  for  years.  They 
have  followed  me  ever  since,  seeming  to  beseech 
me  to  give  language  to  their  dumbness  and  tell 
their  story.  They  seemed  to  understand  so  lit- 
tle, to  want  so  much ;  but  when  I  came  to  know 
the  whole  of  Josie's  life,  they  took  upon  them- 
selves a  new  character,  and  to  my  imagination 
there  was  something  awful  and  accusing  in  their 
remembered  gaze.  I  could  not  put  the  memory 
of  them  away  from  me,  and  I  learned,  at  last, 
that  they  were  not  meant  to  be  forgotten. 

Flossy  Jacobs  hated  Josie,  and  in  a  few  weeks 
the  unfortunate  girl  was  sent  back  to  the  Re- 
form School.  The  morning  the  wretched  out- 
cast was  to  go,  Flossy  kept  persistently  by  her 
side,  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  any  sentimen- 
tal leave-taking  with  Charley  Manton.  This 
young  man,  however,  marched  boldly  up,  where 
the  two  girls  stood,  at  last,  in  the  doorway,  wait- 
ing for  the  farmer  to  come  and  unhitch  the 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.       135 

horse  and  drive  Josie  away  over  the  wild  roads, 
where  the  golden-rod  had  faded  and  fallen  be- 
fore the  first  frosts  of  winter. 

Josie  shivered  with  the  cold  and  with  the 
passion  of  pain  and  hatred  in  her  tortured  heart. 
Charley  turned  to  Flossy  and  said,  roughly, 
"  Go  in  and  get  your  blanket  shawl,  and  lend  it 
to  Josie  for  the  ride.  She  can  send  it  back  in 
the  wagon.  You  've  made  a  pretty  mess,  you 
have,  but  you  need  n't  kill  her  with  the  cold. 
Go  in,  I  say." 

There  was  a  blaze  that  boded  evil  in  his  eyes, 
and  Flossy  dared  not,  for  her  life,  disobey  him. 
He  took  Josie's  hand  and  laughed  a  little  bit- 
terly. "  You  poor  little  wretch  !  "  he  said  ;  "  no 
more  good  times  for  you.  Run  away,  if  you 
get  a  chance,  and  I  '11  take  you  to  Mexico  with 
me."  Then  he  stooped  and  kissed  her,  and,  as 
he  lifted  his  head,  he  saw  Flossy's  angry  eyes 
behind  Josie,  as  she  came  along  the  entry  with 
the  shawl.  He  stepped  forward  to  take  the 
wrap,  which  she  threw  at  him  in  a  fury.  He 
laughed  as  he  caught  it,  and  took  her  firmly  by 
the  wrist. 

"  Mind  what  you  say  and  do,"  he  said  in  a 
fierce  whisper.  "  I  've  stood  all  I  will  stand. 
There  's  two  can  play  at  telling.  And  your  pa 
and  your  ma  might  not  like  all  they  'd  hear." 

Flossy    turned    away    cowed,    and    Charley 


136      THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

wrapped  Josie  up,  half  tenderly,  and  helped  her 
ostentatiously  into  the  wagon  when  the  farmer 
came. 

It  is,  perhaps,  unnecessary  to  add  that  when 
Mr.  Jacobs  returned  that  night  from  the  city, 
he  informed  Charley  that  his  services  were  no 
longer  needed  on  the  farm. 

Josie  went  back  to  be  watched  and  suspected, 
and  to  hate  the  whitewashed  walls  and  the  long 
corridors  and  the  monotonous  daily  routine,  the 
silent  meals,  the  morning  and  the  evening 
schools,  the  sense  of  suffocation  everywhere,  as 
she  had  never  hated  them  before. 

She  was  desperate,  and  yet  she  was  nearer 
salvation  than  ever  before  in  her  life.  Her  love 
purified  her,  as  love  must  purify.  She  had  not 
been  very  bad  hitherto,  but  she  had  grown  up 
among  girls  many  of  whom  were  of  bad  lives 
and  vicious  propensities.  She  had  listened  to 
their  talk,  she  had  laughed  at  their  jokes,  and 
had  been  contaminated  by  them.  Now  she 
shrank  from  their  coarseness.  She  had  read 
some  pure  stories  of  love  and  marriage  while  at 
Mr.  Jacobs's.  All  the  passion  and  all  the  pur- 
ity of  which  she  had  read  now  filled  her  heart. 
She  formed  to  herself  an  ideal  that  she  would 
gladly  be  like  for  Charley  Manton's  sake.  She 
believed  he  would  marry  her  if  he  could,  if  she 
were  free  to  go  out  to  him  in  that  wide,  beauti- 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.       137 

ful  world  of  which,  since  her  childhood,  she  had 
had  such  few  glimpses.  She  would  have  given 
her  life  for  him.  She  wanted  at  least  to  give 
him  a  pure  heart.  He  was  a  minister's  son,  she 
knew ;  she  had  wild,  foolish  notions  that  he  be- 
longed to  some  half  princely  race  ;  so  high  above 
her,  alas,  seemed  any  respectability  of  blood 
and  breeding.  She  felt  that  she  must  strain 
every  nerve  to  be  worthy  of  him. 

It  would,  perhaps,  have  been  a  wiser  effort  of 
the  conscience  if  she  had  tried  to  attain  this 
worthiness  by  a  strict  compliance  with  the  rules 
of  the  institution  of  which  she  was  a  member, 
and  by  a  faithful  service  therein.  But,  possibly 
because  her  moral  nature  was  weak,  it  never  oc- 
curred to  Josie  that  the  Reform  School  really 
had  any  claim  on  her  obedience  or  her  loyal  de- 
votion. Certainly  she  never  yielded  any  which 
she  could  avoid.  She  simply  detested  it  all,  — 
the  routine,  the  superintendent,  the  teachers, 
the  girls  and  their  coarseness. 

Many  a  night,  when  things  had  gone  more 
wrong  than  usual  through  the  day,  when  her 
unsubdued  temper  had  shown  itself  in  sulky 
looks,  in  muttered  words,  and  impatient  flashes 
of  those  dark  eyes,  when  the  matrons  had  been 
cross,  when  the  washing  —  for  Josie  worked 
now  in  the  laundry  —  had  made  her  back  ache 
intolerably,  and  when  "  marks "  had  crowded 


138       THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

against  her  record,  the  unhappy  child  cried 
away  long  hours  before  she  slept,  smothering 
her  sobs  in  the  bedclothes,  so  that  her  room- 
mate should  never  guess  her  trouble. 

The  chapel  of  the  school  was  a  long,  pleasant 
room,  with  a  low  platform  at  one  end,  having  a 
desk  on  it.  The  boys,  during  Services,  sat  in 
settees  on  the  floor,  facing  this  platform.  Be- 
hind them,  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  hall,  was 
an  elevated  gallery  shut  off  by  a  wooden  fence 
rising  some  three  or  four  feet.  Into  this  pen 
the  girls  were  marshaled  on  Sundays.  The 
boys  came  into  the  hall  first,  from  their  part  of 
the  house,  and  took  their  seats  on  the  floor, 
directly  before  the  speaker.  After  they  were 
seated,  the  door  from  the  other  side  of  the 
house,  which  led  into  the  gallery,  was  opened, 
and  the  girls  filed  in.  They  were  forbidden  to 
look  at  the  boys  as  they  entered.  When  they 
sat  down,  those  in  the  front  rows  could  see  the 
speaker  over  the  fence  if  they  took  pains  to 
look,  but  he  could  see  little  of  them  except  the 
tops  of  their  heads.  The  speakers  who  came 
there  were  sometimes  ministers,  sometimes 
gentlemen  from  the  city,  who  were  interested 
in  the  school  or  in  the  classes  of  juvenile  offend- 
ers from  whose  ranks  it  was  recruited.  They 
generally  addressed  their  remarks  to  the  boys. 
It  was  difficult  for  them  to  realize  that  those 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.      139 

half-unseen  female  creatures  set  aside  behind 
that  wooden  fence  were  to  be  affected  by  their 
words.  They  encouraged  the  boys  to  do  well, 
and  promised  them  an  honorable  future  if  they 
did.  These  gentlemen  were  usually  too  well 
informed  to  hold  out  to  these  lads  the  possibil- 
ity of  possessing  the  presidential  office ;  still, 
the  careers  of  Abraham  Lincoln  and  Henry 
Wilson  were  sometimes  too  tempting  to  be 
wholly  ignored.  There  was  riot  much  said  to 
the  girls.  It  was  difficult  for  the  most  sanguine 
believer  in  the  reformation  wronght  in  the 
school,  or  the  most  hopeful  observer  of  social 
phenomena,  to  picture  any  very  bright  future 
as  attainable  by  these  pariahs.  Sometimes  the 
speaker  would  remember  that  half-hidden  au- 
dience behind  the  fence,  and  amid  his  exhorta- 
tions to  the  boys  would  helplessly  add,  "  and 
girls,"  and  feel  that  his  duty  was  done.  The 
girls,  in  a  vague  way,  understood  and  felt  all 
these  things.  They  rather  liked  the  singing, 
but  otherwise  cared  very  little  for  the  chapel 
services.  One  reason  they  liked  the  singing 
was  that  then  they  stood  up  and  could  look 
round  among  the  boys,  —  though,  of  course, 
they  were  forbidden  to,  —  and  could  even  some- 
times make  stealthy  signals  to  them.  Whether 
these  unfortunate  young  people  could  ever  have 
been  taught  to  behave  quite  properly  in  each 


140      THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

other's  presence  may  be  a  question ;  but  cer- 
tain it  is  that  ill  the  institution  described  here 
the  only  effort  made  was  to  keep  the  sexes 
apart,  and  no  attempt  whatever  was  put  forth 
to  teach  them  how  to  behave  when  they  did 
come  in  contact. 

It  was  one  Sunday  morning,  that,  standing 
up  to  sing,  Josie  Welch  saw  Charley  Manton 
in  the  chapel  below  her.  His  face  was  turned 
from  her,  of  course.  She  saw  only  the  back 
of  his  head  and  his  broad  shoulders,  but  she 
knew  him,  and  felt  a  great  dizzy  throb.  She 
grew  faint  and  white,  but  happily  there  was  no 
one  near  who  cared  enough  for  her  to  notice 
her  agitation.  She  watched  him  as  a  drowning 
man  might  watch  a  nearing  sail,  looked  at  him 
as  the  rich  man  in  hell  might  have  looked  into 
heaven  when  its  gates  opened  before  him,  and 
heaven,  safety,  hope  and  happiness,  all  grew  pos- 
sible to  her.  She  sang  no  more  that  day,  but 
only  looked.  Even  when  they  sat  down  again, 
and  she  could  see  him  no  more,  she  kept  her 
eyes  turned  towards  the  part  of  the  hall  where 
he  sat.  She  fancied  the  face  she  had  not  seen, 
and  dreamed  a  thousand  dreams  in  the  short 
half-hour  before  the  service  was  over.  After- 
wards she  began  to  wonder  how  Charley  Man- 
ton,  a  minister's  son,  her  imagined  prince,  came 
to  be  in  the  Reform  School. 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.  141 

The  facts  were  very  simple.  He  had  come 
to  the  city  and  made  his  living  for  some  time 
by  his  wits,  till  he  was  finally  arrested  for  some 
petty  larceny.  The  judge  before  whom  he  was 
brought  remembered  his  father,  and  sent  him 
to  the  Reform  School,  although  he  was  older 
than  most  boys  are  when  first  condemned  there. 
The  judge  hoped  thereby  to  save  his  old 
friend's  son  from  the  disgrace  of  imprisonment 
in  jail,  and  perhaps  to  break  up  in  its  begin- 
ning the  career  of  crime  on  which  the  youth 
seemed  about  to  enter. 

Charley  doubtless  remembered  that  Josie  was 
an  inmate  of  this  house,  when  he  came  there, 
but  he  made  no  effort  to  renew  his  acquaint- 
ance with  her. 

Josie,  on  her  part,  had  recourse  to  the  knot- 
hole she  had  found  when  a  child.  She  spent 
all  the  minutes  she  could  snatch  from  the  vigi- 
lance of  the  teachers,  and  the  coarse  observation 
of  the  girls,  staring  through  that  hole  into  the 
boys'  yard,  hoping  to  see  Charley  pass.  Several 
days  elapsed  before  she  saw  him.  When  she 
did  it  was  at  a  most  favorable  moment.  He 
was  absolutely  alone  on  his  side  of  the  fence, 
and  she  on  hers,  and  he  was  passing  very  near 
her.  She  put  her  lips  to  the  hole  and  softly 
called,  "  Charley  ! "  He  heard  her,  sent  his 
quick  eyes  roving  round  the  yard,  and  in  an 


142      THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

instant  spied  the  tiny  opening.  He  went  up 
to  it. 

"  "Who  are  you?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  know  me  ?  I  'm  Josie." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  so.  Well,  I  don't  see  as  I 
can  shake  hands  with  you  or  kiss  you  through 
this  fence ;  but  never  mind ;  I  'm  glad  to  hear 
you,  if  I  can't  see  you.  I  've  been  expecting 
you  to  make  some  demonstration." 

Josie  trembled  at  the  sound  of  his  voice. 
They  whispered  a  moment  more,  and  made 
some  arrangement  for  talking  there  occasion- 
ally, and  for  slipping  letters  through  when  they 
dared  not  speak  to  each  other.  Then  each 
turned  back  to  the  house,  which,  of  course,  they 
entered  at  different  sides.  Josie  went  to  her 
work  in  the  laundry,  as  happy  a  girl  as  ever 
lived. 

Two  weeks  after  this,  the  superintendent 
passed  Charley  Manton  as  at  noon  time  he 
stood  slouching  in  the  door  of  the  workshop. 
Mr.  Brewster,  though  a  very  large  man,  had  a 
soft,  noiseless  step,  and  for  once  Charley's  vigi- 
lant senses  were  off  their  guard.  The  young 
man  held  a  bit  of  paper  in  his  hand,  and  was 
reading  it,  while  a  smile  half-pleased,  half-scorn- 
ful, curved  his  handsome  lips.  The  superin- 
tendent stepped  suddenly  up  behind  him  and 
snatched  the  paper  from  him. 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.  143 

Charley  turned  with  the  spring  of  a  tiger 
and  with  a  loud  oath ;  but  when  he  saw  who 
it  was  he  stopped  and  stood  still.  The  rage  in 
the  boy's  eyes  was  matched  by  the  triumphant 
and  mocking  glare  in  the  master's  orbs.  Char- 
ley did  not  speak  while  the  superintendent 
glanced  rapidly  over  the  paper.  It  was  a  let- 
ter signed  "  Josie." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Brewster.    "  Josie 

*     •/          * 

Welch  !  I  knew  that  girl  was  up  to  something 
by  her  looks,  and  I  Ve  been  on  the  watch  for 
her.  I  heard  you  were  at  Mr.  Jacobs'  farm 
with  her  last  fall,  and  I  suspected  her  excite- 
ment was  about  you.  Making  love  to  her,  are 
you?  What  do  you  want  to  do  it  for?  It's 
pretty  business  for  you." 

"  Oh,  she  does  well  enough  to  pass*  away  the 
time  here,"  answered  Charley,  with  the  look  of 
a  devil  in  his  young  face.  "  If  I  were  out  of 
here,  I  would  n't  take  her  to  wipe  my  shoes." 

The  superintendent  smiled  appreciatingly, 
pocketed  the  letter,  and  left  Charley,  who,  as 
soon  as  he  found  himself  alone,  gave  a  long, 
sharp  whistle,  and  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  So,  you 
think  that 's  up,  do  you,  sir  ?  We  '11  see." 

This  is  a  literal  copy  of  Josie's  letter,  spell- 
ing, capital  letters,  and  all,  and  it  may  serve 
to  show  the  extent  of  the  education  likely  to 
be  acquired  in  the  Reform  School :  — 


144       THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

DEER  CHARLEY,  —  I  got  the  pictures  safe, 
thank  you  dont  come  heer  never  enny  more,  i 
shall  cry  all  nite  if  i  dont  get  letters  or  see  you 
thru  the  hole  but  it  is  n't  safe,  i  know  the  super 
is  looking  out  for  us.  I  can  feel  myself  get  red 
whenever  i  see  him.  I  dont  care  what  he  does 
to  me  if  he  finds  out  but  he  would  flog  you 
dredfully  and  i  dont  want  to  get  you  in  enny 
truble.  i  love  you  all  the  same  deer  Charley, 
so  no  more  at  present  from  JosiE. 

With  this  epistle  in  his  pocket,  the  super- 
intendent marched  directly  to  the  laundry,  and 
waited  a  few  minutes  till  the  girls  came  in  with 
the  matron  to  begin  their  afternoon  work. 
Josie  started  guiltily  when  she  saw  Mr.  Brew- 
ster,  but  proceeded  quietly  to  the  ironing-table, 
where  she  took  out  one  of  his  shirts  and  began 
to  press  it.  He  loitered  about  the  room  a  mo- 
ment, spoke  to  one  or  two  of  the  other  girls, 
and  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the  matron, 
and  then  said  suddenly,  in  a  loud,  clear  voice, 
"Josie  Welch,  come  here  with  me." 

She  set  down  her  iron,  threw  one  frightened 
glance  at  the  matron,  turned  violently  red, 
then  white  as  a  corpse,  placed  one  hand  on  the 
ironing-board,  steadied  herself  a  second,  and 
then  followed  him  without  a  word. 

He  led  her  through  one  or  two  entries  to  a 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.  145 

large  empty  room,  sometimes  used  to  store 
wood.  Like  the  laundry  they  had  just  left  it 
was  in  the  basement,  and  it  had  whitewashed 
walls  and  a  stone  floor.  When  they  had  entered 
the  room  he  locked  both  the  doors  leading  from 
it,  and  then  looked  at  the  girl  with  cruel  stead- 
iness and  said,  "  I  want  you  to  give  me  the  let- 
ter you  have  had  from  Charley  Manton." 

"  I  have  not  had  any  letter." 

"  Oh,"  he  sneered,  "  perhaps  you  don't  know 
who  Charley  Manton  is  !  " 

"  I  knew  somebody  named  that,  when  I  was 
out  on  trial." 

"  You  did  n't  know  he  was  in  the  school  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Well,  he  is.  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  to- 
gether, you  know.  And  I  want  the  letter  he  's 
sent  you." 

"  He  has  n't  sent  me  none." 

"  And  you  have  n't  seen  him  or  spoken  to 
him  since  he  's  been  here  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Before  God,  I  have  n't!  "  cried  Josie.  Her 
face  was  dogged  and  hopeless,  but  determined. 

The  superintendent  drew  from  under  his  coat 
a  rattan,  and  struck  her  three  or  four  times. 
She  winced  horribly,  and  grew  whiter  still  with 
pain  and  fear,  but  she  did  not  cry  out.  Then 

10 


146       THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

he  crunched  his  teeth,  and  brought  his  lower 
jaw  forward,  while  a  murderous  look  came  into 
his  eyes,  and  catching  her  hand  he  said,  "I 
know  you  've  got  a  letter  from  Charley  Man- 
ton.  I  've  got  your  letter  to  him  in  my  pocket. 
If  you  don't  give  me  the  one  you  have,  I  '11  get 
a  larger  rattan  and  flog  you  till  you  do." 

She  put  her  hand  in  her  bosom  and  drew  out 
a  little  package.  He  seized  it  from  her,  and 
turned  it  over  contemptuously.  There  were 
three  or  four  little  colored  prints  wrapped  in  a 
a  bit  of  white  paper,  but  no  writing  anywhere. 
If  Josie  had  any  letters  from  Charley  she  had 
hidden  them.  The  superintendent  tore  the 
pictures,  which  were  innocent  enough,  into 
pieces,  and  stuffed  the  bits  into  his  pocket. 
Josie  would  gladly  have  murdered  him  that 
moment,  and  she  looked  as  if  she  would. 

"  You  need  n't  make  a  fool  of  yourself  over 
that  fellow,"  said  he,  meeting  her  furious  dark 
eyes  with  his  own.  "  He  does  n't  care  any- 
thing about  you ;  he  told  me  so.  He  said  if 
he  were  out  of  this  place,  he  would  n't  take 
you  to  wipe  his  shoes." 

"  I  don't  believe,"  answered  the  girl,  "  that 
he  said  any  such  thing." 

Mr.  Brewster  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  and 
he  picked  up  the  rattan  which  had  dropped  on 
the  floor ;  but  then  he  gave  a  short  laugh,  and 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.  147 

said,  "  Go  back  to  your  work  now,  and  mind 
what  you  do  after  this." 

A  few  days  later,  the  judge  who  had  sen- 
tenced Charley  Manton  to  the  Reform  School 
obtained  the  consent  of  the  authorities  that  he 
should  go  out  on  trial,  with  far  less  restriction 
placed  about  him  than  was  usual  in  the  cases  of 
inmates  of  the  Reform  School  sent  out  before 
the  expiration  of  their  term  of  sentence.  But 
the  influence  of  Charley's  friends  and  the  fact 
that  he  was  of  such  good  family  operated  pow- 
erfully in  his  favor.  He  was  put  at  work  in  a 
machine-shop,  a  few  miles  from  the  city,  and  he 
boarded  in  a  respectable  family. 

Josie,  disgraced  and  suspected,  remained  in 
the  school,  undergoing  many  physical  hardships 
and  a  mental  torture  which  strained  her  nerves 
to  their  utmost,  till  at  last  an  outbreak  came. 

It  was  a  chilly  morning  in  March,  when  Josie 
took  down  to  the  laundry  a  plant  which  Charley 
Manton  had  given  her  the  autumn  before,  at 
the  farm.  The  pot  which  contained  it  was  too 
small  for  it,  and  she  delayed  her  work  a  few 
minutes  to  transplant  it  into  a  little  box  she  had 
found  in  the  yard.  The  laundry  matron  came 
in  just  then,  and,  happening  to  feel  cross,  as  she 
passed  Josie  she  caught  the  plant  from  the  girl's 
hand,  and  flung  it  into  the  stove.  Josie  gave  a 
cry  like  that  of  some  wild  beast  in  pain,  and 


148      THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

darting  forward  seized  it  from  the  flames,  put  it 
back  in  the  box  and  smoothed  the  earth  around 
its  roots,  her  hands  trembling  with  excitement. 
The  matron  pushed  her  aside,  took  box  and 
plant,  opened  the  window,  and  tossed  them  out 
into  the  frosty  air.  "  Go  to  work,  Josie  Welch !  " 
she  said. 

Josie  stood  still  one  second,  then,  panting  and 
struggling  as  with  some  unseen  evil  spirit,  she 
sobbed  and  swore  and  cursed.  Her  breath  came 
hard  ;  she  grew  dark  in  the  face  and  sprang  at 
the  matron,  who  darted  aside  and  called  out, 
"Susy  Jones,  go  for  Mr.  Brewster."  Then 
Josie  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter  more  horri- 
ble^  than  her  ravings ;  and  after  the  laughter 
died  away,  scream  followed  scream  ;  but  she 
made  no  further  attack  on  the  woman. 

"  Susy,"  cried  the  matron  again,  as  she  saw 
the  other  girls,  Susy  among  them,  standing  mo- 
tionless around. 

Josie's  own  cries  brought  the  superintendent 
there.  He  came  up  to  her  and  attempted  to 
take  her  arm.  She  dashed  herself  on  him,  like 
a  wild  cat.  He  seized  a  basin  that  stood  near 
a  tub  of  cold  water,  and  filling  it  again  and 
again  threw  the  chilly  flood  over  her.  She 
broke  loose  from  his  grasp.  He  pursued  and 
caught  her,  dragged  her  back  to  the  tub,  and 
poured  the  water  over  her  while  she  gasped  and 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.  149 

struggled.  Choked  and  breathless,  her  sight 
growing  dim,  a  horrible  agony  in  all  her  frame, 
she  groped  in  blind  fury,  while  the  icy  water 
still  dashed  relentlessly  on  her  person,  until  she 
caught  hold  of  the  basin  and  threw  her  whole 
weight  upon  it,  to  drag  it  from  her  tormentor. 
He  pulled  it  back  and  hit  her  under  the  chin 
with  such  force  that  she  nearly  bit  her  tongue 
off.  Her  mouth  filled  with  blood,  which  poured 
out  and  stained  his  hands.  He  saw  his  advan- 
tage over  the  dizzy,  half-stunned  girl,  and  fol- 
lowed it  up.  Josie  fell  reeling  to  the  floor.  He 
said,  afterwards,  that  she  fell  down  herself. 
The  frightened  girls  who  witnessed  the  scene 
always  said  he  struck  her  again  with  the  basin 
and  knocked  her  down. 

They  took  her  to  a  cell  and  locked  her  up  for 
three  days.  For  a  week  she  could  not  talk,  be- 
cause of  the  blood  which  poured  into  her  mouth, 
and  she  was  able  to  eat  only  enough  to  keep  her 
alive. 

One  day  before  she  was  released  two  of  the 
matrons  came  in  and  told  her  to  sit  down,  for 
they  were  going  to  cut  her  hair  off.  She  looked 
imploringly  at  them,  and  saw  that  entreaty  and 
protest  would  be  alike  vain.  She  submitted, 
and  they  sheared  her  beautiful  dark  hair  short, 
and  then  made  a  clumsy  attempt  to  shingle  it. 
No  reason  was  assigned  for  this  act,  but  Josie 


150  THE  CHILD   OF  THE  STATE. 

supposed  it  was  intended  for  punishment.  She 
wept  bitterly  at  first  for  the  loss  of  her  lovely 
hair,  but  her  shorn  head  soon  suggested  to  her 
a  daring  idea. 

She  went  back  to  work  in  the  laundry,  and 
began  to  secrete  occasional  articles  of  male  cloth- 
ing. She  ripped  open  the  mattress  of  her  bed 
and  hid  them  in  that.  One  day  she  was  in  the 
sewing-room,  when  a  quantity  of  clothing  was 
brought  in  to  be  mended.  When  left  alone  with 
it,  she  stole  from  the  pile  a  pair  of  trousers.  She 
coveted  a  jacket,  but  dared  not  take  that  also, 
lest  the  theft  should  be  discovered. 

It  happened  that  she  had  then  a  room  by 
herself.  She  rose  at  twelve  o'clock  that  night, 
dressed  herself  rapidly,  and  stood  in  the  star- 
light at  last,  in  shirt  and  trousers,  looking  like 
a  delicate,  pretty  boy.  She  took  the  sheets 
from  her  bed  and  tossed  them  through  the  tran- 
som over  the  locked  door  of  her  chamber.  She 
stuffed  her  shoes  into  her  shirt,  climbed  out  her- 
self, glided  like  a  shadow  past  the  doors  of  the 
other  dormitories,  and  reached  the  window  at 
the  end  of  the  corridor.  She  pushed  up  the 
sash  and  looked  out.  Fifteen  feet  below  was 
the  roof  of  the  front  porch. 

She  looked  down  till  she  felt  dizzy,  then  took 
the  sheets,  tied  them  securely  together,  fastened 
one  end  to  the  blind,  and,  without  stopping  to 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.  151 

think,  swung  herself  out.  The  blind  creaked 
frightfully.  She  dropped  close  by  the  window 
of  the  superintendent's  room,  and,  gathering 
herself  up,  heard  sounds  within  as  of  some  one 
stirring  in  sleep,  —  waking,  perhaps,  at  the 
noise  she  had  made ! 

She  stood  up,  and  stared  with  her  beautiful 
wild  eyes  into  his  room.  A  low  light  burned 
there,  and  she  saw  him  tossing  on  his  bed. 
What  kept  him  from  fully  waking,  God  only 
knows.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better, 
even  for  hapless  Josie,  if  he  had  awakened. 

She  threw  her  arm  up  as  she  turned  away, 
and  in  a  low  murmur  muttered  a  dreadful 
curse  upon  the  sleeper's  head.  She  went  to  the 
edge  of  the  piazza  and  again  looked  down.  The 
pillars  that  supported  the  roof  of  the  porch  were 
too  large  for  her  to  clasp.  The  sheets  dangled 
helplessly  in  front  of  that  window  behind  her. 
She  saw,  at  last,  the  pipe  —  a  large,  strong  one 
—  which  drained  the  eaves.  It  ran  down  by 
the  column.  She  swung  herself  over,  and  cling- 
ing desperately  to  the  pipe,  and  bracing  against 
the  pillar,  after  some  dizzy,  desperate  struggles 
found  herself  on  the  ground  in  the  front  yard. 
She  easily  made  her  escape  from  this  small  in- 
closure;  climbing  a  low  fence,  and  dropping 
into  the  street,  she  ran  out  into  the  free,  horri- 
ble darkness  of  the  night. 


152  THE   CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

The  gray,  chilly  dawn  was  close  at  hand 
•when,  shivering  and  faint,  Josie  crouched  by  the 
roadside,  in  the  suburbs  of  a  large  manufactur- 
ing town,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  city  she 
had  left.  After  a  night  of  terror  and  excite- 
ment, the  early  morning  often  brings  to  jaded 
nerves  and  brain  a  peculiar  sense  of  suffering 
and  discouragement.  Josie  felt  that  the  broad- 
ening light  was  creeping  on  solely  to  discover 
her  to  all  the  hounding  police,  who  would  be, 
she  knew,  on  her  track  that  day ;  she  was  bit- 
terly cold,  and,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands,  she  crept  yet  closer  to  the  fence,  and 
sobbed  and  cried.  Her  hour  of  heroism  was 
over,  and  the  hour  of  despair  had  struck.  Just 
then  she  heard  a  quick  step  sounding  near  her, 
and  starting  up,  she  saw  Charley  Manton,  and 
flung  herself  toward  him  with  a  cry  of  unutter- 
able gladness. 

"  Hulloa  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  What 's  all 
this  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Charley ! "  sobbing  wildly  and  clinging 
to  him. 

"  Well,  this  is  a  pretty  piece  of  work.  You  've 
run  away,  I  suppose.  Plucky,  on  my  word,  and 
you  've  turned  into  a  boy."  He  pushed  her  off 
half  roughly,  so  he  could  look  at  her.  "  Well, 
you  don't  act  much  like  a  boy.  You  need  n't 
flatter  yourself.  You'd  better  get  into  petti- 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.       153 

coats  again.  Your  disguise  is  not  a  success. 
You  poor  little  fool !  " 

"I  want  to  go  somewhere  and  get  work, 
where  they  can't  find  me,"  sobbed  she,  with  a 
desperate  effort  to  assert  a  maidenly  pride,  and 
act  as  if  she  did  not  mean  to  throw  herself  wholly 
on  his  protection.  Poor  child,  where  had  she 
learned  maidenliness,  among  the  bold  young 
boys  and  girls  at  the  Reform  School ! 

"How  can  you  get  work  till  you've  got  a 
dress  ?  It 's  no  use  for  you  to  try  to  get  a  place 
as  a  boy.  You  could  n't  deceive  anybody  twen- 
ty-four hours." 

"I  '11  go  to  my  uncle,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  know  where  he  is  ?  And  do  you 
think  your  aunt  will  be  glad  to  see  you  back 
again  ?  Have  they  taken  much  pains  about  you 
these  six  years  ?  " 

"  I  've  got  a  brother." 

"Yes,  I  know  it.  He  did  work  here.  He 
enlisted  in  the  navy  a  month  ago,  and  his  ship 
has  sailed." 

"  You  know  that  ?  Then,"  she  cried,  "  you 
know  where  my  uncle  is  ?  " 

"  Your  uncle,  Josie,  is  dead.  Your  aunt  has 
married  again." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  this  before  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  he  laughed,  "  I  wanted  to  see  what 
your  ideas  of  action  were." 


154       THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

"  Oh,  Charley,  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

u  Why,  I  guess  we  can  manage  you.  Come 
with  me  ;  I  '11  take  care  of  you." 

She  drew  back  a  little,  and  said,  "I  don't 
want  to  go  with  you  unless  "  — 

«  Unless  what  ?  " 

"  You  know  what,"  she  stammered.  "  I  ain't 
a  bad  girl.  You  know  I  ain't,  Charley.  You 
would  n't  have  liked  me  if  I  had  been." 

"  Well,  is  it  going  to  make  you  a  bad  girl  to 
go  with  me  ?  Come,  don't  be  too  stuck-up." 

"  I  'd  rather  get  work." 

"  Try  it,  and  see  if  you  can.  You  're  a  Re- 
form School  girl.  That 's  enough  against  you." 

"  They  won't  ask  where  I  'm  from,  at  a  fac- 
tory." 

"  And  you  understand  factory  work  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  can  learn." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  ask  for  a  girl's  work  or  a 
boy's?" 

Josie  was  silent.  Why  had  she  not  brought 
her  dress  with  her  from  the  Reform  School? 
It  might  have  saved  her  now. 

"You  know,"  went  on  Charley,  "that  if 
you  're  found  out  you  '11  be  taken  back  to  the 
school,  and  you  know  what  '11  happen  to  you 
then  ;  and  you  '11  be  found  out,  as  sure  as  you 
try  for  work." 

"  Oh,"  said  Josie  shuddering,  "  the  superin- 
tendent has  used  me  awful." 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.       155 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,  the  old  brute  !  Come  with 
me,  and  I  '11  fix  it.  Why  should  n't  you  come 
with  me  ?  Ain't  I  your  best  friend  ?  " 

His  eyes  were  magnetic  as  he  fixed  them  on 
her,  and  this  faint  touch  of  tenderness  in  his 
speech  set  her  to  sobbing  afresh.  In  a  moment, 
she  raised  her  head,  fixed  on  him  her  lovely 
eyes,  from  which  looked  forth  a  soul's  last 
appeal,  and  with  a  sweet,  steady  sadness  she 
said,  "  Will  you  marry  me,  Charley  ?  " 

He  laughed  :  "  Oh,  may  be  so.  Come  on, 
come  on,  there  's  a  good  girl.  Hurry  up,  midget. 
There  '11  be  a  million  people  in  the  street  in  a 
few  minutes!  The  whole  town  is  waking  up. 
There  '11  be  a  devil  of  a  row  if  you  're  caught 
here." 

She  heaved  a  long,  shivering  sigh,  and  fol- 
lowed him. 

Seven  years  afterwards,  Mrs.  Faber  visited 
the  House  of  Correction.  It  was  Sunday,  and 
the  inmates  were  assembled  in  the  chapel,  — 
vagrants,  drunkards,  prostitutes,  men  and 
women  out  of  whom  debauchery  seemed  to 
have  stamped  the  last  spark  of  divinity,  almost 
of  humanity.  The  good  countiy  woman  shud- 
dered as  she  glanced  around.  She  had  come  to 
see  the  institution  from  mere  curiosity,  but  that 
feeling  shrank  back  abashed  before  the  hor- 


156  THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE. 

riJ>le  reality  of  what  she  saw.  As  she  looked 
around  she  perceived,  at  last,  among  the 
women,  a  girl  in  whose  face  was  something 
strangely  familiar.  Those  dusky  eyes  seemed 
to  start  up  from  some  cloudy  past  and  stare  at 
her  through  clearing  mists.  Mrs.  Faber  beck- 
oned to  one  of  the  officials,  who  came  to  her 
during  some  pause  in  the  services. 

"  What  is  that  girl's  name  ?  "  she  asked, 
"  the  dark  one  who  sits  third  on  the  second  seat 
from  the  front.  The  one  with  a  scarlet  ribbon 
at  her  throat." 

"  Oh,  Josie  Burns  she  calls  herself.  I  don't 
suppose  it  is  her  real  name." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  her  ?  " 

"  Not  much.  She  grew  up  in  the  Reform 

School  at ,  she  says.  She  's  rather  refined 

and  gentle  in  her  ways,  except  when  she  's 
angry.  She  has  a  quick  temper,  and  I  guess 
she  's  quite  a  desperate  character.  She  says 
she  has  one  or  two  children,  and  sometimes  she 
says  she  's  had  to  live  as  she  has  to  support 
them,  but  I  presume  that 's  all  lies.  You  can't 
tell  much  by  what  any  of  these  women  say." 

**  What  will  become  of  her  children,  if  she 
has  any?" 

"  It 's  rather  sad  to  think  of,  but  the  girls 
will  grow  up  like  her,  probably,  and  the  boys 
will  become  thieves  and  tramps,  most  likely. 
Such  women  are  the  mothers  of  criminals." 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  STATE.  157 

"  Is  she  here  for  long?  " 

"  Six  months,  and  she  's  been  here  three. 
It  's  quite  a  story.  She  threw  herself  under 
the  railroad  train  as  it  was  coming  out  of  the 
station,  and  was  pulled  off  the  track  just  in 
time  to  save  her,  and  then,  as  there  did  n't 
seem  to  be  anything  else  to  do  with  her,  she 
was  sent  here." 

"  And  where  can  her  children  be  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  she  has  any ;  but  she  says 
she  had  got  them  places,  and  thought  she  'd 
take  herself  out  of  the  way.  Do  you  know 
her  ?  " 

"  She  reminds  me  of  a  little  girl  I  took  once 
from  that  Reform  School,  but  it 's  not  the  same 
name." 

"  I  dare  say  it  is  she.  They  change  their 
names  a  dozen  times,  and  sometimes  they  really 
get  married  besides." 

"  I  should  like  to  speak  to  her  after  the  ser- 
vices are  over." 

"  Oh,  certainly." 

As  the  women  were  about  to  leave  the 
chapel,  Mrs.  Faber  went  up  to  the  one  who  had 
roused  her  interest,  and  said  to  her  simply, 
"Are  n't  you  Josie  Welch  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl,  "  and  you  are  Mrs. 
Faber,  that  I  used  to  live  with.  I  had  a  very 
good  time  at  your  house,  and  you  were  very 
kind  to  me." 


158  THE  CHILD   OF  THE  STATE. 

"Oh,  Josie,"  said  Mrs.  Faber,  half  crying, 
"  I  am  so  sorry  to  see  you  here.  Such  a  nice 
little  girl  as  you  were." 

No  tears  stood  in  Josie's  hopeless  eyes,  even 
when  she  saw  the  kindly  drops  in  the  other's 
eyes. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  It  would  have 
been  better  for  me  if  I  could  have  stayed  with 
you  always." 

"  I  wish  you  had,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Faber.  Josie 
smiled  slowly  ;  it  was  so  many  ages  too  late  for 
such  a  wish ! 

"  Oh,  Josie!  "  cried  Mrs.  Faber,  after  a  mo- 
ment more,  "  they  tell  me  you  threw  yourself 
under  the  train.  How  could  you  ?  " 

"I  was  drunk,"  answered  the  girl  in  a  hard, 
cold  voice,  "  and  I  thought,  besides,  if  I  died 
that  way,  may  be  Charley  Manton  would  hear 
of  it  some  day." 


"A  STRANGER,  YET  AT  HOME." 

"  I  walk  once  more  a  haunted  shore, 
A  stranger,  yet  at  home,  — 
A  land  of  dreams  I  roam." 

PRUDENCE  WARNER  stood  twisting  her  brown 
hair  into  an  irreproachable  knot  at  the  back  of 
her  head.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass, 
with  gray,  honest  eyes  beaming  softly  under 
straight  pretty  brows.  Her  mouth  was  sweet 
but  homely,  and  her  nose  was  delicate.  She 
was  thirty-five  and  a  spinster,  —  a  very  con- 
tented one ;  but  it  may  have  been  that  her 
contentment  under  the  limited  conditions  of  her 
life  arose  from  a  somewhat  limited  nature.  She 
was  habitually  diligent  in  the  Sunday-school, 
and  devoted  to  the  temperance  society.  She 
liked  to  sew  on  her  gowns,  and  sometimes 
found  pleasure  in  very  harmless  gossip.  This 
last  idiosyncrasy  was  fiercely  denounced  by  her 
mother,  Mrs.  Arvilla  Warner. 

"  The  idee,"  said  that  matron  once,  "  of 
pesterin'  yourself  to  find  out  what  stuff  Mrs. 
Coggeshall  's  a-goin'  to  cover  her  furniture  with, 


160  "A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME." 

when  there  's  Emerson  —  blessed  man !  —  a- 
layin'  on  that  table,  in  a  figgerative  sense,  jest 
waitin'  to  let  you  get  acquainted  with  him" 

"  But,  mother,"  Prudence  faintly  answered, 
gazing  deprecatingly  at  the  volume  indicated, 
"  I  can't  understand  Emerson  very  well,  and 
what  I  do  understand  don't  seem  quite  ortho- 
dox to  me." 

"  And  what  call  have  you  to  be  orthodox  ?  " 
retorted  Mrs.  Warner,  who,  being  a  staunch 
Unitarian,  felt  aggrieved  because  her  husband 
had  remained  a  Baptist  during  all  the  years  of 
their  married  life,  and  because  Prudence  in 
early  girlhood  had  been  baptized  into  her 
father's  faith. 

"It  was  all  that  Lorenzo  Haynes's  doin'," 
thought  the  indignant  mother,  —  "  foolin'  round 
her  with  his  soft  speeches." 

She  was  about  right.  Young  Haynes,  a  big- 
eyed  divinity  student,  had  been  the  hero  of 
Prudence's  one  love  dream  ;  a  dream  that  had 
vanished  many  years  before  Prue,  at  thirty-five, 
stood  brushing  her  soft  hair  in  the  virginal 
solitude  of  her  pretty  room.  . 

One  of  the  peculiarities  of  Miss  Warner's  sit- 
uation in  life  was  that  the  members  of  her  fam- 
ily did  not  really  bear  to  her  the  relation  they 
nominally  did.  Mr.  Warner  was  not  her  father, 
but  uncle,  and  her  uncle  only  by  marriage. 


"A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME."  161 

His  first  wife  had  been  the  sister  of  Prudence's 
mother,  and  had  taken  the  baby  when  that 
mother  died.  She,  also,  soon  followed  the 
world-accustomed  pilgrimage,  and  passed  out  of 
the  sight  of  eager  eyes.  Then  Mr.  Warner 
married  Arvilla  Gould,  who  had  tenderly  cared 
for  the  adopted  child.  All  her  life,  Prue  had 
been  well  beloved,  but  tamely,  except  for  the 
brief  period  during  which  her  clerical  lover  had 
been  both  true  and  ardent.  On  the  whole,  Prue 
had  nearly  succeeded  in  teaching  herself  that 
the  moderate  certainty  of  her  home  affections 
was  worth  more  than  that  flickering  flame  had 
been,  and  there  was  no  real  trouble  now  in  the 
eyes  that  were  reflected  at  her  in  the  mirror. 

Her  own  father,  Stanton  Dudley,  had  married 
a  second  time,  been  widowed,  and  wedded  again, 
and  after  this  threefold  experience  had  himself 
died,  leaving  a  widow,  Prue's  unknown  step- 
mother. Somewhere  among  these  marital 
changes  another  daughter  was  born  to  him,  a 
fair,  slight  girl,  with  cheeks  that  bore  the  fatal 
New  England  flush.  When  very  young,  she 
married  a  man  somewhat  older  than  herself. 
Under  his  loving  eyes,  her  wild-rose  bloom  grew 
into  a  deeper  hectic,  then  faded  and  paled  in 
death.  Darius  Kingman  left  the  country  imme- 
diately, and  settled  in  business  in  China.  Once 
in  a  while  he  acknowledged  his  connection  with 
11 


162  "A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME." 

Prudence  by  sending  her  gifts,  which  she  dis- 
played to  her  village  friends  with  some  pride. 

"  From  my  brother,"  she  would  say,  gently 
lingering  on  the  words. 

"  Oh,  he 's  only  a  half  brother-in-law,  at  best ! " 
cried  Maggie  Stafford,  on  one  such  occasion ; 
"  and  yet  he  's  the  only  real  relative  you  have  in 
the  world." 

"  I  'm  sure,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Warner,  sharply, 
"  Prue's  folks  think  just  as  much  of  her  as  any- 
body's else's  folks  do  of  them." 

Maggie  was  a  young  married  woman,  strug- 
gling for  an  assured  position  among  the  good- 
natured  village  aristocracy,  who  were  easily  in- 
duced to  open  their  doors  part  way  for  her. 
They  criticised  her  a  good  deal,  but  tolerated 
and  even  rather  liked  her,  both  women  and  men 
feeling  the  charm  of  her  unusual  beauty. 

On  this  afternoon  of  which  we  have  spoken, 
when  Prudence  had  at  last  finished  arraying 
herself,  she  went  down-stairs,  and  met  Mr. 
Warner  bustling  into  the  sitting-room. 

"  Where  's  mother  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  There  she  comes,  up  the  street,"  answered 
Janet,  the  pretty  handmaid,  flinging  open  the 
porch  door.  Prue  stepped  to  the  threshold,  and 
saw  her  mother  approaching.  She  was  an  el- 
derly woman,  tall  and  spare,  with  thin,  high 
features,  which  were  shaded  by  a  silk  sun-bon- 


"A  STRANGER,    TET  AT  SOME."  163 

net  and  a  green  veil  tied  over  her  forehead. 
Spectacles,  also  green,  garnished  her  nose.  She 
wore  a  black  silk  gown,  and  with  her  gloveless 
hands  pushed  forward  a  doll  baby-carriage,  in 
which  were  laid  several  packages. 

"  There !  "  cried  Mrs.  Warner,  as  she  came  up 
the  steps,  a  moment  later.  "  Janet  never  told 
me  till  just  now  we  was  out  of  lump  sugar,  and 
I  up  an'  bundled  off  after  it ;  and  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  lay  in  some  rice  and  tapioca  at  the 
same  time.  I  knew,  with  all  my  years,  I  could 
get  it  quicker  'n  Janet,  not  being  so  much  inter- 
ested in  the  young  man  in  the  store.  That 's 
where  my  years  are  a  real  help  to  me." 

Prue,  stooping,  shook  some  dust  from  Mrs. 
Warner's  skirt. 

"  Marm  's  all  ready  in  the  parlor,"  said  she. 
"  Come  and  see  how  nice  she  looks.  But,  oh, 
mother,  don't  forget  that  Janet  will  take  the 
teacups  from  you  to  pass  !  " 

"I  won't  let  her  forget,"  pertly  quoth  the 
maid. 

"Come,  come,"  commented  Mr.  Warner; 
"you  talk  as  if  mother  was  a  child." 

Several  ladies  were  now  seen  coming  to  the 
front  door,  and  the  family  went  into  the  par- 
lor to  receive  them.  They  clustered  around 
"  Marra,"  Mrs.  Warner's  aged  mother,  who  sat 
with  calmly  folded  hands. 


164  "A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME." 

"Ninety-five  to-day,"  said  her  son-in-law, 
"and  she  don't  look  a  bit  over  eighty." 

"  Oh,"  quavered  the  old  lady,  "  but  I  don't 
feel  nigh  so  spry  as  when  I  was  on'y  ninety.  I 
did  n't  think  I  'd  live  to  see  this  day." 

"  That 's  so,"  said  her  daughter.  "  Mother 's 
just  been  bent  on  dyin'  all  this  spring.  Did  n't 
want  me  to  make  up  this  dress  for  her,  for  fear 
she  would  n't  wear  it.  But  I  was  bound  she 
should  have  it,  anyhow." 

"  It  '11  do  beautiful  to  be  laid  out  in,"  said 
Marm,  smoothing  its  shining  folds.  "  Dear, 
dear  me,  Arvilly,  what  a  time  it  is  sence  I  was 
to  a  funeral !  " 

The  ladies  drew  out  their  fancy  work.  Mag- 
gie Stafford  sat  down  by  the  last  gift  Darius 
Kingman  had  sent,  a  lovely  cabinet,  that  Prue 
had  transformed  into  a  writing  desk.  She  was 
not  in  the  habit  of  writing  much,  but  it  had 
pleased  her  fancy  to  make  the  pretty,  curious 
structure  serve  as  a  sort  of  shrine  for  the  unused 
literary  implements  belonging  to  the  family. 

"  This  is  very  nice,  I  'm  sure,"  said  Maggie, 
passing  her  fingers  over  the  inlaid  surface.  "  It 
must  be  very  convenient.  I  suppose,  Mrs. 
Warner,  you  're  such  an  intellectual  person,  you 
write  and  compose  a  great  deal." 

"  Not  I,"  said  the  matron,  with  a  toss  of  her 
head.  "  I  thank  the  Lord  I  can  use  my  meas- 


"A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME:'  165 

uring  tape  on  myself  as  true  as  on  anybody  else, 
and  I  know  too  much  to  waste  my  time  a-writ- 
ing  things  I  would  n't  take  the  minutes  to  read 
if  somebody  else  had  written  them." 

"  How  Maggie  always  does  rub  mother  the 
wrong  way  !  "  mused  Prue,  with  a  quiet  smile ; 
and  then,  on  some  pretext,  she  stepped  to  the 
door  and  looked  out  across  the  road.  The  level 
sunbeams  shone  into  her  eyes,  under  the  flower- 
laden  boughs  of  apple-trees.  A  tiny  bird,  all 
brown  and  yellow,  swayed  on  some  frail  support 
among  the  grasses.  The  grass  itself  shimmered 
in  the  warm,  low  light,  and  pink  apple-buds 
seemed  to  pale  visibly  into  white  blossoms,  their 
blushes  dying  as  they  grew  used  to  the  kisses  of 
the  sun. 

How  lovely  it  all  was  !  Prudence  turned  her 
eyes,  and  saw  a  man  walking  up  the  road  be- 
side the  orchard  wall.  She  gave  an  amazed  lit- 
tle cry,  started  eagerly  forward,  checked  herself, 
stood  a  moment  irresolute,  then  advanced  slowly 
to  the  gate,  and  when  the  stranger  came  up  she 
put  out  her  hand,  and  he  took  it,  before  either 
spoke. 

"You  must  be  Prudence,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  Do  you  know  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Darius." 

They  went  into  the  house  together. 

"  Good  land  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Warner.  "  You 
don't  mean  it !  Darius  Kingman,  as  I  live  I " 


166  "A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME." 

"Come  here,  come  here,"  said  Marm,  in  a 
high  tone.  "  I  'm  'most  blind,  an'  I  want  to  see 
if  it 's  really  him." 

Everybody  talked,  and  laughed,  and  ex- 
claimed, while  Kingman  stood  looking  down  at 
the  aged  woman,  —  everybody  but  Prue,  who 
kept  very  silent,  watching  Darius  with  shy,  glad 
eyes. 

Kingman  spoke  very  deferentially  to  the  old 
lady.  He  might  well  have  smiled  to  see  her. 
Around  her  withered  throat  she  wore  a  black 
ribbon,  on  her  head  a  cap  made  of  cheap  black 
and  white  laces,  mixed  with  lavender  ribbon, 
and  round  her  head  was  tied,  with  long  ends,  a 
bright  green  string,  which  held  on  her  specta- 
cles. Down  each  of  her  temples  were  laid  six 
little  locks  of  gray  hair,  shaped  like  button- 
hooks. After  Darius  and  Prue  became  inti- 
mate, she  confided  to  him  the  information  that 
those  gray  locks  were  cut  more  than  twenty 
years  before  from  Mann's  dead  husband's  brow. 
After  the  lapse  of  some  time,  the  widow  had  had 
them  made  up  into  their  present  ornamental 
shape,  and  now  wore  them  bound  on  to  her  fore- 
head under  her  cap. 

The  husbands  of  Mrs.  Warner's  guests  ar- 
rived a  few  minutes  after  Kingman,  and  then 
all  the  questions  and  welcoming  uproar  began 
again,  till  everybody  learned  that  one  of  the 


"A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME."  167 

gentlemen,  Mr.  Coggeshall,  who  was  related 
to  Darius,  had  had  some  communication  with 
him,  and  knew  of  his  intended  return.  It  did 
not  transpire  that  evening,  but  in  the  course  of 
a  few  days  the  whole  village  learned  that  the 
traveler  had  come  to  help  Mr.  Coggeshall  in  the 
management  of  a  new  factory. 

Amid  the  hubbub  around  Mann's  chair,  Ja- 
net's clear  voice  was  heard  saying  that  supper 
was  ready.  During  the  progress  of  that  meal, 
Mrs.  Warner  became  so  absorbed  in  telling 
Maggie  Stafford,  what  every  one  else  at  the  ta- 
ble knew,  about  the  china  that  came  into  her 
own  family  when  one  of  her  uncles  married  "  a 
real,  foreign-born  French  woman,"  that  she  for- 
got to  give  the  cups  of  tea  to  Janet,  and  started 
them  herself  on  uncertain  journeys  from  hand  to 
hand  around  the  table.  The  maid  pursed  up  her 
lips  and  unpursed  them,  balanced  her  waiter  un- 
certainly for  a  moment,  then  tapped  her  mistress 
on  the  shoulder,  whispering  fiercely,  "  Give  it 
to  me,  ma'am,"  and  seized  a  cup  from  the  ab- 
sent-minded matron,  which  she  bore  trium- 
phantly to  Mr.  Kingman ;  while  Mrs.  Cogges- 
hall made  some  remark  about  the  Russian  tea 
she  had  drank  in  Europe,  and  Maggie  Stafford 
silently  wished  that  she  also  were  a >  connois- 
seur in  teas. 

A  few  evenings  later,  as  Prudence  was  weed- 


168  "A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME.1' 

ing  her  flower  bed,  Darius  came  into  the  garden, 
and  strolled  up  to  her.  She  flushed  slightly, 
holding  out  her  soiled  hands  with  an  apologetic 
gesture  of  exhibition. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  he.  "  I  saw  a  pump  in 
the  field  as  I  came  through.  I  am  sure  you 
can  find  water  enough  to  make  them  clean." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  feeling  a  little  con- 
fused, —  "  in  the  meadow.  That 's  where  they 
water  the  cows." 

He  laughed,  threw  himself  on  the  grass,  and 
stared  up  at  the  apple  blossoms. 

"  How  unlike  China  !  "  he  said  at  last. 

"  It  must  all  seem  strange  to  you,"  she 
ventured,  rather  timidly. 

"  Strange,"  he  echoed,  "  yet  so  familiar.  It 
is  coming  back  to  first  principles  with  a  ven- 
geance, to  take  up  life  in  a  New  England  vil- 
lage, after  going  round  the  globe  in  search  of  a 
destiny." 

She  did  not  half  understand  him,  but  she 
smiled,  and  he  felt  encouraged  to  go  on. 

"  I  feel  the  spell  of  old  associations  already. 
I  am  sure  I  have  made  my  circuit.  I  have 
traveled  far,  but  all  my  paths  lead  me  back  to 
the  starting-place." 

He  plucked  the  blades  of  grass  under  his  idle 
fingers,  and  played  with  them  for  some  mo- 
ments, then  broke  the  silence  suddenly  :  — 


"  A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME."  169 

"  Prudence,  will  you  go  with  me  to  the 
Quaker  meeting  on  Sunday  ?  —  First  day,  I 
suppose  I  should  say." 

She  glanced  up,  surprised.  "  Yes,"  he  con- 
tinued dreamily,  "  the  old  faith  knocks  within 
my  heart,  where  it  has  always  lain  hidden,  and 
demands  to  come  out  and  rule  my  life  again." 

She  was  really  a  little  frightened,  as  well  as 
much  puzzled,  at  the  turn  Darius'  remarks  had 
taken ;  but  as  she  knelt  there  by  her  flowers, 
with  raised  face  and  perplexed  eyes,  something 
in  her  sympathetic  though  uncomprehending 
womanhood  stimulated  him  to  reveal  his  thought 
more  fully  to  her. 

"  Do  you  not  know,"  he  said,  "  that  I  was 
born  and  bred  a  Friend,  but  was  disowned  when 
I  married  your  sister?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered. 

"  I  was  in  love,"  he  went  on,  "  and  what  I 
did  I  would  do  again  under  the  same  circum- 
stances; but  those  can  never  be.  And  so  it 
has  come  to  pass  that  I  feel  the  longing  of  a 
homesick  child  to  be  once  more  received  into 
membership." 

"You  do  not  look  like  a  Quaker,"  said  she. 

"  Perhaps  not ;  nor  do  I  talk  like  one,"  he 
added,  with  a  smile.  "  Old-fashioned  Quakers 
never  discuss  religious  matters.  Maybe  I  shall 
feel  no  need  of  speech  when  I  sit  among  them 
again." 


170  "A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME." 

"It  seems  odd,"  murmured  the  bewildered 
Prue. 

"  I  suppose  it  does,"  he  admitted.  "  But 
truly,  Prue,  you  can  never  know  how  deep  the 
dye  of  Quakerism  is  to  those  whose  souls  are 
steeped  in  it,  as  an  hereditary  religion.  It  is 
only  a  veneer  of  the  world  I  wear  upon  me. 
My  garments  are  un-Quakerish  in  cut,  but  my 
thoughts  are  shaped  after  the  old  pattern." 

"  And  will  you  wear  a  drab  coat  ?  " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  hearty  laugh. 
"I  don't  know  whether  the  inward  impulse 
will  extend  so  far  outward." 

He  started  towards  the  house,  and  she  fol- 
lowed. The  path  was  more  familiar  to  her, 
than  to  him,  and  yet  she  felt  as  if  it  was  he 
that  was  guiding  her,  under  the  cherry-trees 
and  apple-blossoms,  to  the  door  of  her  home. 

It  chanced  that  two  or  three  weeks  elapsed 
before  Prudence  was  able  to  accompany  her 
brother-in-law  to  the  Quaker  meeting.  Mean- 
while, Darius  was  very  busy,  thinking  and 
doing.  His  business  arrangements  proceeded 
rapidly  towards  completion.  He  plunged  head- 
long into  details,  of  which  some  bewildered  and 
some  surprised  him.  In  his  character,  practical 
energy  was  united  with  dreamy  speculative- 
ness.  He  possessed  good  abilities  as  a  business 
man,  combined  with  the  mental  furnishing  that 


"A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME:'  171 

would  have  done  for  a  religious  enthusiast. 
Remarkable  in  neither  department  of  his  mind, 
his  thinking  was  still  of  an  honest,  truthful 
sort,  and  he  had  always  managed  to  keep  sight 
of  a  horizon  line  beyond  the  sordid  cares  or 
tempting  passions  of  every-day  existence.  Dur- 
ing the  years  spent  in  China,  his  longing  for 
an  ideal  existence  had  become  intensified  into 
what  was  almost  a  passion  for  a  religious  life. 
A  homesick  feeling  mingled  with  the  senti- 
ment, and,  uniting  itself  to  the  ineradicable  im- 
pulse that  a  Quaker  breeding  gives  to  the  soul, 
Burned  his  thoughts  towards  the  renewal  of  his 
fellowship  with  the  church  of  his  forefathers. 
Across  the  drift  of  this  current  came  the  in- 
cident of  his  entrance  into  a  manufacturing 
business,  involving,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  some 
complexity  in  his  relations  with  many  of  his 
fellow-beings. 

Darius  Kingman,  sickening  with  disgust  at 
Asiatic  life,  whose  conditions  tried  his  faith,  in 
the  unity  of  the  human  race,  had  idealized  his 
own  country,  and  he  therefore  found  many 
things  to  perplex  him  when  he  came  suddenly 
into  contact  with  American  industrial  forces, 
and  with  laborers  on  American  soil.  At  first 
he  was  delighted  ;  then  shocked  by  some  occur- 
rences which  left  him  uncertain  whether  these 
painful  phenomena  were  normal  or  excep- 
tional. 


172  "4  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME." 

It  was  a  perfect  June  morning  on  which  Da- 
rius drove  with  Prudence  through  the  sleepy 
heat  to  the  old  Quaker  meeting-house.  The 
roads  were  lined  with  blackberry  and  barberry 
bushes.  Locust-trees  grew  on  either  side  by 
the  stone  walls,  and  were  in  full  bloom,  making 
the  air  heavy  with  their  sweetness.  Wild- 
grape  vines  clasped  trees,  stones,  and  shrubbery 
in  an  abandoned  embrace. 

Prudence  sat  erect  by  Kingman's  side,  and 
looked  about  her  with  an  unwonted  brightness 
in  her  eyes.  He  drove  on  in  dreamy  silence. 
The  languid  air,  the  wild  fragrance,  stole  into 
his  soul,  exciting  there  a  sort  of  sensuous  fervor 
of  religious  emotion.  When  they  reached  their 
destination,  he  lifted  Prue  out  before  the  worn 
old  meeting-house,  and  idly  suffered  his  eyes  to 
rest  upon  her  figure  as  she  mounted  the  steps. 
Her  bonnet  was  simple,  and  she  was  clad  in  a 
muslin  gown,  the  prevailing  tint  of  which  was 
gray,  so  that  she  did  not  look  unfit  to  sit  among 
Quaker  women.  He  fastened  his  horse  in  the 
shed,  whose  yawning  alcoves  had  sheltered  the 
teams  of  more  than  one  sober  generation  of 
meeting-goers,  and  then  made  his  way  into  the 
little  assembly.  The  memories  of  his  boy- 
hood came  over  him,  as  he  took  his  seat  apart 
from  Prue,  on  the  "  men's  side  "  of  the  room. 
He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  elders  sitting  on  the 


"A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME:'  173 

"  facing  seats."  Softly  came  the  sound  of  sum- 
mer noises  through  the  windows.  The  mo- 
ments went  by  like  solemn  heart-beats.  The 
faces  of  the  congregation  were  settled  into  stolid 
calm,  but  Darius  felt  as  if  he  were  waiting  for 
something  to  happen.  A  woman  rose,  at  last, 
and  laid  her  bonnet  on  the  bench  beside  her. 
She  began  to  speak  in  a  low  voice,  which  soon 
soared  into  the  well-known  Quaker  chant.  Her 
sentences  were  disconnected,  ungrammatical, 
and  uncertain  of  significance  ;  but  Darius  could 
not  judge  this  utterance  as  he  would  have 
judged  it  if  delivered  in  another  tone  and 
place.  Religious  feeling  and  truth  were  linked 
too  closely  with  such  sounds,  through  all  the 
experience  of  early  life. 

A  small,  sharp  -  featured  man  arose  next. 
Plain  as  his  face  was,  it  had  a  look  of  tender- 
ness, and  his  homely  eyes  were  very  earnest. 
His  words,  uttered  simply,  and  with  but  little 
intonation,  were  direct.  He  spoke  of  God  aa 
if  he  were  sure  of  him.  "  Men  are  slow,"  he 
said,  "  really  to  believe  there  is  a  God  in  this 
world.  They  believe  in  many  other  powers, 
but  not  in  his.  They  are  slow  to  think  he  is 
working  right  here.  Yet  he  made  men  so  that 
they  need  him.  Man  is  higher  than  all  the 
other  creatures  God  has  made,  but  he  needs 
God  more  than  these  lower  ones  do.  If  we  are 


174  "A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME." 

not  in  unity  with  God,  we  cannot  live  right 
lives,  so  it  behooves  us  all  to  watch  carefully 
what  passes  within  us,  to  see  that  we  be  in 
unity  with  him.  For  thus  much  he  has  left  it 
to  us  to  do,  that  we  should  not  be  mere  pup- 
pets ;  we  must  try  to  put  ourselves  into  com- 
munion with  him,  if  we  want  his  help.  If  there 
be  any  who  say  they  cannot  see  God,  or  under- 
stand him,  amid  the  sore  provings  of  trouble 
and  sorrow  and  pain  that  are  laid  upon  them, 
verily,  it  is  because  they  have  themselves 
closed  their  eyes  and  darkened  their  minds  to 
perceive  him  not." 

Thus  spoke  the  old  man,  with  an  accent  of 
every-day  in  his  voice,  and  it  seemed  to  Darius 
that  this  was  what  he  had  waited  for,  —  the 
speech  of  a  man  who  really  believed  in  God. 

Some  days  after  this  Sunday,  Darius,  walk- 
ing home  in  the  late  afternoon,  saw  Prue  com- 
ing out  of  one  of  the  factory  tenements,  where 
he  knew  some  consumptive  invalids  lived.  She 
carried  a  little  covered  basket  on  her  arm,  and 
wore  her  gray  muslin. 

"  You  have  been  to  see  poor  Andrews,"  he 
said,  joining  her.  "  He  tells  me  you  have  been 
there  before." 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  You  look  like  a  sister  of  charity." 

"  Do  I  ?  But  I  do  not  make  a  business  of 
doing  good." 


"A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME."  175 

"  Perhaps  you  are  good  enough  without 
making  a  business  of  it.  Some  of  us  have  to 
treat  it  as  a  very  serious  occupation  indeed,  in 
order  to  succeed  much  in  it,"  he  said,  slowly,  as 
they  walked,  treading  the  flickering  shadows 
of  the  willow  boughs  that  drooped  above  their 
heads. 

"  How  came  you  to  take  up  visiting  the  poor?  " 
he  inquired. 

"I  didn't  take  it  up,"  she  said,  somewhat 
confusedly.  "I  never  knew  anything  about 
such  people,  till  Mr.  Coggeshall  built  these 
houses  by  the  river ;  and  then  we  had  a  wash- 
erwoman from  one  of  the  families,  and  I  went 
there  once  when  the  cellar  was  flooded ;  and  so 
I  kept  on  going,  they  were  so  near." 

"  These  people  were  your  neighbors,  in  short," 
said  he,  looking  at  her  gently,  "and  so  you 
treated  them  with  neighborly  kindness.  Well, 
my  dear,  I  am  not  sure  that  searching  through 
all  the  universe  will  find  me  a  better  gospel 
than  that  of  neighborliness,  —  if  we  only  see 
clearly  how  large  our  neighborhood  is." 

He  fell  to  wondering  what  would  be  the  effi- 
cacy of  the  Golden  Rule  as  an  economic  princi- 
ple ;  but  she,  still  walking  by  his  side,  scarcely 
heard  the  happy  chirping  of  the  birds  above 
them,  her  heart  was  throbbing  so  because  he 
had  called  her  his  dear. 


176  "4  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME." 

Maggie  Stafford  met  them  thus,  and  glanced 
curiously  at  their  faces. 

"  At  her  age ! "  thought  the  young  married 
beauty. 

A  few  minutes  later,  she  was  sitting  on  Mrs. 
Coggeshall's  portico,  saying,  "  Upon  my  word, 
I  do  think  the  English  way  is  better.  Then  a 
girl  in  Prudence's  position  would  know  at  once 
there  could  be  no  love-making  between  her  and 
her  brother-in-law,  and  so  wouldn't  get  her 
mind  set  in  that  direction." 

Mrs.  Coggeshall  looked  blandly  at  her  visitor. 
"  Oh,  indeed,"  she  said,  "  have  you  leanings 
towards  the  English  Church  ?  Well,  I  always 
did  like  the  service  very  much,  and  I  have  read 
a  good  deal  about  the  Anglican  division  from 
Rome  with  great  interest.  If  you  are  thinking 
about  these  things,  I  should  be  delighted  to  lend 
you  several  theological  works  which  I  possess. 
Mr.  Coggeshall  always  laughs  at  what  he  calls 
my  '  pious  library.'  I  confess,  however,  I  never 
could  quite  make  up  my  mind  to  turn  Episco- 
palian. It  was  the  fault  of  the  English  people. 
They  are  responsible  themselves  for  my  remain- 
ing outside  their  communion.  I  always  doted 
on  everything  English  till  the  war  came,  and 
then  they  were  so  nasty,  as  they  say,  I  never 
could  abide  them  afterwards.  Do  you  remem- 
ber much  about  the  war  ?  " 


"A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME."  177 

"  Yes,  though  I  was  quite  young  then,"  said 
Maggie ;  and  bent  on  returning  to  the  charge, 
she  added,  "  I  think  it  very  odd  Mr.  Kingman 
did  not  come  back  from  China  to  go  into  the 
army." 

"  Brought  up  a  Quaker,  my  dear,"  rejoined 
Mrs.  Coggeshall,  thoroughly  aware  of  Maggie's 
purpose,  and  equally  resolved  to  frustrate  it. 
"  You  know  Quakers  don't  fight ;  and  though 
many  of  the  young  men  in  the  Society  did  go 
into  the  army,  they  were  those  who  were  in  the 
very  heat  of  the  martial  spirit  of  the  North,  and 
caught  the  war  fever  without  stopping  to  think 
of  the  principles  of  their  religion.  But  Darius 
was  way  off  in  China,  and  only  echoes  reached 
his  ear  ;  positively,  only  echoes  of  the  strife. 
It  was  n't  exactly  '  distance  lending  enchant- 
ment to  the  view,'  but  something  analogous  to 
it.  The  excitement  did  not  overcome  the  effect 
of  a  lifelong  training.  He  sympathized,  and  all 
that,  but  could  not  take  the  bloody  sword  in 
hand.  Oh,  I  respect  his  devotion  to  principle 
just  as  much  as  I  honor  the  courage  of  our  sol- 
diers !  I  knew  several  of  those  Quaker  officers 
from  Philadelphia.  Splendid  fellows !  Come 
into  the  house,  Maggie,  and  let  me  show  you  a 
photograph  of  one  of  them.  Such  a  gentleman 
and  soldier  as  he  was !  And  to  think  he  is 

dead !     Yet  I  've  got  to  that  age  that  some- 
12 


178  "A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME." 

times  it  seems  to  me  as  if  half  the  world  were 
dead,  and  it  was  n't  natural  for  me  to  have  any 
friends  alive." 

So  she  talked  the  young  woman's  gossip 
down,  but  she  understood  it  very  well,  and  be- 
gan herself  to  fear  that  Prue  might  be  laying  up 
trouble  for  her  poor  little  heart. 

Maggie,  meanwhile,  rushed  into  the  game, 
and  often  invited  Darius  to  visit  her.  She  had 
no  special  desire  to  assume  the  rdle  of  mar- 
ried flirt.  Her  ambition  was  to  have  a  popular 
house,  and  to  move  about  in  it  with  impartial 
smiles.  Darius  took  Prudence  with  him  a  few 
times.  She  sat  in  the  corner,  very  composed 
and  very  quiet.  He  did  not  quite  like  the  com- 
pany he  met  there,  and  it  relieved  an  occasional 
feeling  of  annoyance  for  him  to  see  Prue  on  her 
low  seat  by  the  window. 

"  Am  I  not  glad  that  is  over  !  "  he  said  one 
night,  as  they  started  for  home.  "  I  would  not 
go  there  so  much  if  Mrs.  Stafford  did  n't  man- 
age it  so  that  I  seem  obliged  to.  I  don't  think 
it  is  consistent  with  my  Quaker  principles  to 
frequent  such  gay  assemblies." 

"I  can't  quite  make  out,"  said  Prue,  "how 
much  in  earnest  you  are  about  your  Quaker- 
ism." 

"  I  am  very  much  in  earnest,"  answered  he. 
"  Do  you  not  think  a  simple  style  of  living,  on 


"A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME."  179 

the  part  of  the  rich,  might  have  a  tendency  to 
bring  about  a  keener  sense  of  the  brotherhood 
of  men  ?  " 

There  was  no  reply  to  this  remark,  because 
just  then  a  turn  in  the  road  brought  them  out 
of  the  dense  shadow  of  trees,  and  there,  dis- 
played before  them,  was  the  sky  all  in  a  pallid 
flame  with  dancing  Northern  Lights. 

After  this  evening,  Darius  generally  suc- 
ceeded in  escaping  or  refusing  Maggie's  invita- 
tions. That  pretty  lady  pouted,  pretended  to 
be  grieved,  and  finally  gave  a  little  revengeful 
thrust : — 

"  I  suppose  a  poor  married  woman  like  me 
must  give  up  your  friendship,  now  you  are  so 
much  interested  in  another  quarter.  Oh,  I 
know:  I  ought  to  retire  to  my  kitchen,  and 
leave  the  parlor  for  the  '  young  folks,'  or  only 
come  there  to  sit  by  the  wall  and  watch  them 
enjoy  themselves.  But  I  don't  like  to  do  that 
very  well,"  she  added,  demurely  folding  her 
hands  and  dropping  her  lovely  eyes,  "  when  the 
only  reason  I  am  not  one  of  the  '  young  folks ' 
myself  is  that  I  am  married,  not  that  I  am  old. 
I  am  really  not  near  so  old  as  some  people  I 
know.  And  truly,  I  don't  see  why  I  can't  like 
fun  and  my  friends  just  as  well  as  if  I  did  n't  — 
like  somebody  ever  so  much  better,  and  belong 
to  him,  —  in  a  general  way.  And  why  can't 
you,  Mr.  Kingman  ?  Is  she  jealous  ?  " 


180  "A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  he 
stoutly. 

"  Oh,  but  she  does,"  retorted  Maggie,  look- 
ing prettier  than  ever,  for  audacity  was  becom- 
ing to  her.  "  Or  is  it  only  a  case  of  somebody 
liking  you  best  ?  Then  surely  you  might  come 
to  my  little  parties.  Oh,  there  's  my  good  man ! 
Tom,  dear,  don't  you  see  me?  Here  I  am, 
quarreling  with  Mr.  Kingman.  Come  over  and 
walk  home  with  me,  for,  truly,  he  won't." 

That  evening  there  was  a  temperance  meet- 
ing in  the  village,  and  all  the  aristocracy  of  the 
place  attended,  by  way  of  setting  a  good  exam- 
ple to  the  lower  classes.  Mrs.  Coggeshall,  look- 
ing across  the  aisle,  saw  Prue's  eyes  resting  for 
an  instant  on  Darius. 

"  Ah,"  thought  the  matron,  "  Providence  ev- 
idently intends  this  to  be  a  case  for  me.  Pru- 
dence has  no  flesh-and -blood  mother,  and  the 
best  make-believe  one  don't  thrill  through  every 
nerve  on  behalf  of  a  child,  as  a  real  one  does. 
I  have  n't  an  idea  Mrs.  Warner  sees  a  thing  of 
what 's  going  on  under  her  respectably  specta- 
cled nose.  To  be  sure,  Prue  is  old  enough  to 
take  care  of  herself ;  only  women,  unless  they 
are  married,  will  be  women  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter,  poor  creatures!  Gracious,  how  time 
goes !  It  must  be  full  fifteen  years  since  Prue 
followed  that  Lorenzo  somebody  down  to  the 


"A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME."  181 

river.  She  thought  she  -was  doing  it  to  please 
the  Lord,  but  I  guess  the  Lord  knew  very  well 
it  was  done  to  please  Lorenzo.  And  now  she  's 
on  the  road  to  another  trouble  !  " 

That  night  Darius  Kingman  sat,  for  an  hour, 
alone  on  his  boarding-house  piazza.  The  moon 
shone  solemnly  down  out  of  a  clear,  dark  sky. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  barrier  between  the 
man's  soul  and  heaven,  —  only  immeasurable 
distance.  All  the  passions  of  his  life  passed  in 
review  before  him,  like  a  great  host  marshaled 
under  that  awful  sky.  Events  were  of  little 
moment  to  him  compared  with  emotions.  He 
was  convinced  that  it  had  not  mattered  much 
what  special  circumstance  had  fired  the  train  of 
feeling  laid  ready  in  his  heart,  or  had  turned 
his  thoughts  along  a  pathway  already  open  be- 
fore him.  If  it  had  not  been  one  incident,  it 
would  have  been  another.  Only  one  thing  in 
all  his  life  appeared  now  to  have  been  of  itself 
of  controlling  import,  —  his  early  love  and  loss. 
Apart  from  this  single  monumental  experience, 
all  his  story  was  the  story  of  a  man's  longing 
after  God,  and  all  that  longing  had  brought 
him  back  to  the  faith  of  his  youth.  Amid  the 
fluctuations  of  modern  thought,  with  its  mate- 
rialistic trend,  this  alone  offered  a  solid  assur- 
ance to  his  mind,  -r-  the  dear  old  Quaker  doc- 
trine, that  in  the  soul  of  every  man  that  cometh 


182  "-4  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME." 

into  the  world  is  a  light  that  lighteth  all  his 
footsteps.  A  thousand  lesser  impulses,  also, 
drew  him  back  to  his  old  religion.  For  the  sake 
of  his  love  he  had  once  defied  the  Quaker  disci- 
pline, which  forbade  marriage  with  an  outsider ; 
but  did  he  wish  to  do  that  again  ?  Prudence, 
sweet  as  she  was  to  him,  aroused  no  such  pas- 
sionate love  as  had  been  given  to  her  sister.  He 
knew  very  well  that  old  customs  had  so  far  re- 
laxed among  the  Friends  in  that  section  of  the 
country  that  he  could  be  admitted  to  fellowship 
with  them,  though  it  were  known  that  he  pur- 
posed marrying  one  of  the  women  of  the  world 
a  week  later.  He  had  no  principle  himself 
against  such  marriages,  and  yet,  whether  from 
the  effect  of  early  training  or  hereditary  preju- 
dice, he  shrank  from  entertaining  at  the  same 
time  the  project  of  joining  the  Society  and  of 
making  such  a  marriage  as  the  Society  had  de- 
liberately condemned  as  "disorderly." 

It  also  touched  what  small  sense  of  humor 
this  serious-minded  man  possessed  to  find  him- 
self, in  this  religious  crisis  of  his  life,  tempted 
to  commit  again  the  very  offense  which  had 
made  him  a  religious  outlaw,  so  many  years 
before.  But  when  he  had  reached  this  stage 
of  his  meditations,  he  told  himself  that  he  was 
not  at  all  tempted  to  marry  Prue.  Why,  then, 
was  he  thinking  about  it  ?  Why  did  her  face 


"A  STRANGER,   YET  AT  HOME.1'  183 

rise  before  him  in  the  moonlight,  beside  the 
radiant  image  of  that  dead  girl,  whose  remem- 
bered beauty  made  the  living  Prudence  seem 
the  ghost  to  him  ? 

The  truth  was,  Maggie  Stafford's  hints  had 
rankled  in  Darius'  mind,  and,  moreover,  Mrs. 
Coggeshall  had  claimed  his  escort  home  that 
evening,  and  plainly  told  him  that  if  he  did  not 
mean  to  marry  Prue  he  would  do  well  not  to 
dangle  around  her  any  more.  Mrs.  Coggeshall 
could  be  very  direct  of  speech  when  she  chose, 
and  she  had  left  no  doubt  as  to  her  meaning  in 
his  mind. 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  he  soliloquized.  "  Prue 
is  not  the  girl  to  fall  in  love  with  any  man  ;  nor 
am  I  exactly  a  charming  creature.  I  will  not 
go  there  to  make  talk,  but  there  is  surely  no 
need  for  me  to  think  of  marrying  her  on  her 
own  account !  What  an  idea  !  As  for  myself, 
I  like  her.  I  really  do  not  know  why  I  like 
her  so  much.  Sometimes,  I  wonder  if  she  has 
any  intellect,  or  only  that  sweet,  sympathetic 
smile,  which  always  leads  me  on  to  talk.  She 
never  says  a  noticeable  thing,  yet  I  always 
want  to  tell  her  all  I  think.  But  I  surely  do 
not  love  her,  or  I  could  not  analyze  her  thus." 

It  did  not  occur  to  the  man  that  he  was  not 
analyzing  her  very  successfully  just  then,  — 
that  he  was  simply  confessing  there  was  some 


184  "A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME.'9 

quality  in  her  which  deified  his  analysis ;  so  he 
went  on  bravely  to  his  resolve,  to  shield  her 
from  gossip,  and  visit  her  only  when  compelled 
to  do  so.  He  rose  at  last  to  leave  the  silent 
porch.  Pausing  at  the  house  door,  he  looked 
up  at  the  moon,  which  now  rode  majestic  in 
the  mid-heavens.  Back  over  his  soul  came  a 
religious  feeling,  like  the  swelling  of  a  great 
tide. 

"  O  God,  my  God,"  he  murmured,  "  in  all 
this  aching,  groaning  world,  in  all  this  living, 
loving  world,  there  is  no  room  for  any  passion 
but  the  desire  of  thee !  " 

So  evening  after  evening  passed,  and  Darius 
did  not  come  to  Prue's  sitting-room.  At  first 
she  wondered  openly  at  his  absence,  playfully 
making  little  vexed  speeches  about  it  to  her 
father  and  mother.  Then  she  ceased  to  re- 
fer to  her  brother-in-law,  and  drooped  a  little, 
and  was  rather  silent,  but  there  was  nobody  to 
notice  that. 

One  afternoon  she  sat  at  the  window,  and  saw 
Darius  go  by,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  with 
Maggie  Stafford  and  her  younger  sister,  Tessy, 
—  a  girl  more  golden-haired,  more  beautifully 
blonde  even,  than  Maggie.  Tessy  was  laugh- 
ing as  they  passed.  The  laugh  sounded  like 
the  note  of  a  bobolink,  Prue  thought;  and, 


"A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME.'1  185 

thinking  this,  she  saw  Darius  smile  kindly  in 
answer.  How  well  she  knew  that  kind  smile  I 

She  rose  at  once,  and  went  to  her  room.  She 
saw  herself  in  her  mirror,  as  the  door  closed 
behind  her,  and  seated  herself  mechanically  in 
a  low  chair.  How  old  and  pale  she  looked  ! 

"  Old  !  "  she  said  to  herself  mockingly.  "  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  dead  ! " 

For  a  full  half  hour  she  sat  there,  scarcely 
moving ;  then  she  went  calmly  down  the  stairs, 
took  up  her  sewing,  and  listened,  without  under- 
standing, while  her  mother  read  aloud  to  her 
something  from  Darwin. 

That  same  evening,  Darius  stood  once  more 
on  Maggie's  piazza,  while  the  music  of  young 
voices  floated  gayly  through  the  open  windows  ; 
and  she  herself,  a  white,  graceful  figure,  came 
to  him,  laying  a  hand  lightly  on  his  arm. 

"  It  is  lovely  to  have  you  back,"  said  she  ; 
"and  I  knew  you  would  like  Tessy." 

" She  is  charming,"  said  the  man.  "But  I 
am  not  in  my  element  among  these  bright  young 
girls.  I  fancy  I  lived  too  long  in  China  to  be 
at  home  in  this  sort  of  society.  I  spoke  pigeon 
English  too  many  years  to  find  my  tongue  apt 
at  compliments  now.  You  are  very  kind  to 
want  to  introduce  me  to  your  girl  friends,  but 
it  is  too  late  for  me  to  make  myself  their  com- 
rade." 


186  "A  STRANGER,   YET  AT  HOME." 

After  this,  he  did  manage  very  nearly  to  se- 
clude himself;  and,  being  much  occupied  by  his 
business  during  the  fall  months,  Prue  was  not 
the  only  one  of  his  friends  who  missed  the  sight 
of  him. 

Of  course  he  was  obliged  to  call  occasionally 
at  Mr.  Warner's,  but  it  was  at  least  three  weeks 
after  that  evening  at  Maggie's  when  Prue  met 
him  first.  She  came  into  the  house  from  a 
botanizing  walk,  carrying  in  her  hand  a  spray  of 
early  red  leaves.  On  her  way  home  she  had 
been  thinking  of  him.  She  was  always  think- 
ing of  him  at  this  time.  She  never  left  the 
house  without  the  thought  that  she  might  see 
him.  She  never  came  back  without  the  hope 
that  he  had  entered  her  home  in  her  absence. 
She  never  approached  a  window  without  won- 
dering if  she  might  not  catch  a  glimpse  of  him 
through  the  revealing  glass,  that  seemed  a  loop- 
hole in  her  prison  walls.  She  never  saw  a  fig- 
ure coming  towards  her  from  the  distance  with- 
out the  prayer  that  it  might  be  his.  It  was  not 
a  sharp  pain  she  felt,  but  a  deathly  suspense  of 
the  mind,  a  slow-creeping  faintness  of  the  heart, 
like  the  on-coming  of  disease  or  of  old  age. 

In  this  mood,  with  his  name  trembling  on  her 
unconscious  lips,  she  came  into  the  room  on  that 
September  afternoon,  and  saw  him  standing  be- 
side her  grandmother,  —  her  grandmother  only 


"A  STRANGER,   YET  AT  HOME."  187 

by  adoption,  like  all  her  other  relatives,  poor 
Prue! 

He  was  saying  gentle  parting  words  to  the  old 
lady,  who  peered  up  at  him,  nodding  her  head, 
till  the  little  false  curls  bobbed  in  a  manner 
quite  unbecoming  their  melancholy  origin. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Darius  Kingman,"  said  the  shrill 
voice ;  "  we  old  folks  expect  you  young  ones  to 
forget  us.  I  ain't  been  a  mite  surprised  you 
did  n't  come,  but  it  did  seem  ruther  more  lone- 
somer.  I  set  here  an'  think  an'  think,  an'  your 
Mary's  pretty  face  rises  right  up  afore  me  like  a 
picter !  She  come  here  a-visitin'  oncet  or  twicet, 
when  she  was  a  tiny  tot ;  an'  I  declare  for  't, 
though  Prue  was  a  better  gal,  I  did  like  your 
Mary  best.  I  set  a  sight  by  Prue,  but  my  heart 
kinder  hankered  after  Mary.  She  was  like  my 
little  gal  that  died ;  an'  when  you  come  it 
brings  the  thought  of  them  both  to  me,  — 
pretty  little  gals,  your  Mary,  as  has  been  dead 
only  thirteen  year,  an'  my  Arabella,  as  died 
sixty  year  ago.  Wai,  wal,  I  allus  see  'em  to- 
gether now,  an'  pretty  soon  I'm  goin'  where 
they  be.  I  think  I  can  find  'em  somewheres, — 
I  think  I  can." 

As  the  old  lady's  voice  died  away  in  an  un- 
earthly whisper,  Darius  turned,  and  saw  Prue, 
very  pale,  standing  before  him,  holding  the 
spray  of  red  leaves  against  her  gray  gown.  He 


188  "A  STRANGER,  YET  AT  HOME." 

felt  a  sort  of  nervous  shock,  but  he  only  bowed, 
touched  her  fingers,  stooped  again  over  Harm's 
withered  hand,  murmured  a  few  incoherent 
words,  and  left  the  house. 

A  few  days  later,  the  grandmother  died,  and 
Darius  came  again  frequently  to  the  Warners'. 
He  was  kind  and  helpful,  but  he  kept  out  of 
Prue's  way,  and  when  the  necessity  for  visiting 
passed  he  came  no  more. 

The  Warners  did  not  put  on  mourning.  "  It 's 
a  sinful  waste  of  time  an'  money,"  said  Mrs. 
Arvilla.  "  It  makes  the  world  dismaler  than  it 
need  be,  an'  there  's  nothin'  Christian  in  doin' 
that.  The  sorrow  that  has  to  be  coddled  to 
keep  it  alive  had  better  die.  If  anybody  thinks 
I  ain't  sorry  my  mother 's  dead,  let  'em  come 
an'  ask  me !  That 's  all." 

So  Prue  still  wore  her  soft  grays  and  browns; 
but  when  she  selected  her  modest  winter  ward- 
robe, that  year,  she  chose  even  plainer  shapes 
and  duller  tints  than  ever  before ;  feeling  not 
only  that  thus  she  did  some  slight  honor  to  the 
aged  woman's  memory,  but  further  impelled 
by  a  sense  that  in  this  way  it  behooved  one  to 
dress  whose  girlhood  had  passed.  She  did  not 
want  to  be  old,  but  she  had  felt  that  she  was 
old  ever  since  the  afternoon  when  she  had 
heard  that  clear  laugh  of  Tessy  Martin's  ring 
out  for  girlish  joy  at  being  in  Darius  King- 


"A   STRANGER,   YET  AT  HOME.11  189 

man's  company.  A  man's  fate,  thought  Prue, 
•was  different  from  a  woman's.  He  was  her 
own  senior  by  several  years,  but  he  was  not 
old  in  the  sense  that  she  was.  He  was  still 
a  welcome  associate  for  young  and  beautiful 
maidens,  while  she  !  —  alas,  what  handsome 
boy  of  eighteen  would  laugh  like  that  because 
Prudence  Warner  smiled  on  him  ?  She  had  not 
only  missed  Darius  Kingman's  love,  —  a  •some- 
thing which  she  had  never  possessed,  —  but  she 
had  lost  that  which  had  once  been  hers,  —  all 
the  blessed  opportunity  of  youth.  She  bade 
herself  accept  her  lot  quietly,  not  trick  herself 
out  in  unbefitting  clothes,  but  be  willing  to  look 
what  she  was,  —  a  middle-aged  single  woman, 
who  had  been  passed  by. 

The  first  time  she  wore  her  new  garments 
to  church,  Maggie  came  up  to  her  after  the 
service,  laughing.  "  Really,  Prudence,  you  look 
just  like  a  Quaker.  Have  you  caught  Darius 
Kingman's  craze  ?  " 

Prue  flushed,  and  turned  angrily  away. 

"  Oh,  I  did  n't  mean  anything,"  called  out 
Maggie ;  but  the  other  would  not  answer,  and 
walked  rapidly  homeward. 

Prue  was  tempted,  after  this,  to  crown  her 
bonnet  with  gay  flowers,  but  she  would  not 
show  Maggie  that  she  felt  the  sting  of  what 
had  been  said. 


190  "A  STRANGER,  YET  AT  HOME." 

Towards  spring,  the  hands  in  Mr.  Cogges- 
hall's  mill  struck.  They  paraded  and  held 
meetings.  There  was  much  gathering  of  peo- 
ple on  the  streets.  All  sorts  of  stories  were 
told  about  everybody  concerned  in  the  business. 
Mr.  Coggeshall,  irritated  by  many  false  re- 
ports, shut  himself  in  his  house  in  sullen  si- 
lence. Deputations  of  spinners  and  weavers 
besieged  his  door  in  vain.  He  would  see  none 
of  them.  Mrs.  Coggeshall  rattled  on  good-hu- 
moredly  about  the  whole  affair,  and  rallied  her 
husband  unceasingly  at  what  she  termed  the 
constantly  increasing  evidences  of  his  popular- 
ity with  the  people  he  employed.  She  treated 
it  all  as  a  joke,  but  he  took  the  strike  as  a  per- 
sonal offense. 

It  was  a  new  experience  to  Kingman,  and 
impressed  him  deeply.  He  talked  with  people 
holding  all  sorts  of  opinions,  and  people  who 
were  affected  in  many  different  ways,  by  the 
questions  at  issue.  By  turns  he  grew  indig- 
nant in  behalf  of  all  parties.  Sometimes  he  was 
heart-sick  and  dismayed  by  the  difficulties  in 
this  and  many  kindred  situations  which  he  in- 
vestigated ;  but  whatever  financial  theories  he 
adopted  or  rejected,  more  and  more  his  sym- 
pathies went  out  to  those  men,  women,  and 
children  to  whom  "labor  troubles  "  meant 
something  worse  than  the  pecuniary  embarrass- 
ment which  threatened  their  employers. 


"A  STRANGER,   YET  AT  HOME."  191 

Prudence  saw  him  now  frequently,  as  busi- 
ness consultations  were  often  held  with  Mr. 
Warner  at  their  house. 

She  did  not  understand  political  economy, 
and  perhaps  would  not  have  been  much  im- 
pressed by  the  talk  between  her  father  and 
Mr.  Coggeshall  about  "  competition  "  if  she  had 
understood  it ;  but  she  noted  Darius'  serious 
aspect,  felt  that  he  was  not  quite  in  sympathy 
with  the  others,  and  yearned  towards  him. 

"  He  seems  to  mind  people's  troubles  as  if 
they  were  his  own,"  she  thought.  "  I  suppose 
we  all  ought  to,"  she  added,  with  the  simple 
comment  of  a  conscience  unversed  in  the  laissez- 
faire  doctrines  of  trade. 

One  Sunday  in  March,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cogges- 
hall came  to  Mr.  Warner's,  soon  after  the  din- 
ner which  it  was  the  village  Sabbath  custom  to 
have  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  The  talk 
turned  on  Kingman's  character. 

"  Now,"  said  Mrs.  Coggeshall,  "  you  may  say 
what  you  will,  but  I  say  there's  something 
very  fine  about  that  man.  With  all  his  Quaker 
stiffness,  if  I  wanted  to  draw  a  picture  of  an 
ideal  gentleman,  I  'd  just  make  his  portrait." 

"A  good  fellow,  a  good  fellow,"  commented 
her  husband  sagely,  "but  very  erratic,  very 
erratic  ; "  and  he  puckered  his  lips,  as  if  he  did 
not  like  the  taste  of  that  word. 


192  "A  STRANGER,  YET  AT  HOME." 

"  Yes,"  said  she  undauntedly,  "  awfully  so ; 
that 's  one  thing  I  like  about  him." 

"  I  don't  see,"  spoke  up  Mrs.  Warner,  "  as 
the  thing  you  call  so  erratic  in  Darius  is  any- 
thing but  the  New  Testament  fanaticism  put 
in  action ;  an'  for  my  part,  I  don't  think  it 's 
respectful  to  the  Lord,  the  way  Mr.  Coggeshall 
and  Mr.  Warner  are  always  talkin',  as  if  the 
Almighty  did  n't  know  about  business,  when 
He  settled  his  system  of  morality." 

"  My  dear,  my  dear,"  softly  interposed  Mr. 
Warner,  "  you  be  a  woman,  and  don't  under- 
stand business." 

"  The  Lord  an'  me  together !  "  ejaculated 
Mrs.  Arvilla. 

At  that  moment  came  a  low  tap  at  the  back 
door,  and  Prudence  softly  glided  out  of  the 
room.  She  soon  came  back,  and  spoke  with 
some  nervousness : 

"  Father,  Darius  wants  to  know  if  he  may 
borrow  the  horse  and  buggy  to  drive  to  Lex- 
ville.  His  horse  is  lame.  He  's  got  a  sudden 
call  to  go,  and  as  he  may  be  detained  he  's 
asked  me  to  go  with  him,  so  I  can  bring  the 
horse  back." 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  bustled  Mr. 
Warner,  rising.  "  I  '11  go  and  see  to  the  har- 
nessing." 

"No,  you  need  n't,"  said  she  hastily.     "I 


"A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME."  193 

guess  Darius  understands  a  horse  as  well  as 
you  do,  —  the  times  he  's  harnessed  Spin  !  Sit 
still,  do  !  You  know  you  've  got  a  lame  back, 
and,  besides,  Mr.  Coggeshall  wants  to  talk  busi- 
ness with  you." 

"  That 's  so,"  said  the  manufacturer,  as  Prue, 
despite  herself,  turned  an  appealing  look  to 
him.  "  Sit  down,  Jacob.  I  guess  Darius  is 
equal  to  the  occasion." 

But  Mrs.  Coggeshall  noticed  Prue's  excited 
manner  and  disapproved  very  much  of  the  pro- 
posed drive.  She  wanted  to  go  straight  out  to 
the  barn,  and  talk  to  Kingman  again  about  his 
sister-in-law's  affections.  She  ached  to  tell  Mrs. 
Warner  how  stupidly  blind  she  was.  But  as 
she  could  do  neither  of  these  things,  she  tried 
to  content  herself  by  attacking  Prudence's  un- 
suspicious mother  on  a  point  of  theology. 

When  Prue,  all  bonneted  and  cloaked,  went 
out  to  the  barn,  she  found  Darius  standing 
beside  the  mare,  his  face  very  white  and  his 
lips  compressed. 

"  I  '11  harness  her,"  said  she,  "  and  I  've  made 
it  all  right  in  the  house." 

"  Poor  little  Prue,"  said  he.  "  What  a  dip- 
lomate  you  must  be,  and  I  should  never  have 
suspected  it  of  you !  " 

She  put  the  mare  in  the  traces,  backed  the 
buggy  out  of  the  barn,  and  helped  Darius  in. 

13 


194  "A  STRANGER,  YET  AT  HOME." 

He  submitted  with  a  protest,  but  when  both 
were  seated  he  gathered  up  the  reins  with  his 
left  hand. 

"  You  'd  better  let  me  drive,"  said  she. 

"  Not  till  we  have  passed  the  house,"  he  an- 
swered. 

They  leaned  forward  and  bowed  as  they  went 
by  the  sitting-room  windows,  and  then  Darius 
laughed  a  little,  for  Mrs.  Coggeshall  darted  at 
him  a  wrathful  look,  the  purport  of  which  he 
suspected. 

When  they  were  on  the  road  Prue  firmly 
took  possession  of  the  reins,  saying,  "  Now  tell 
me  all  about  it." 

"I  have  told  you  all  there  is, — just  a  row 
with  Tom  Murphy  and  Peter  McNamara,  as  I 
came  across  the  fields,  looking  for  trailing  ar- 
butus. It  was  nothing.  They  would  n't  have 
touched  me,  but  they  were  drunk,  and  took  it 
into  their  muddled  heads  to  class  me  among 
their  oppressors.  There  's  no  real  ill  -  blood 
among  the  strikers.  They  've  behaved  very 
well,  I  think,"  he  added,  with  an  attempt  at  a 
smile,  "  considering  they  Ve  had  to  do  without 
the  refining  influences  of  higher  education." 

"  Oh,  but  are  you  hurt  very  much  ?  " 

"Not  seriously;  only,  as  I  said,  my  arm 
must  be  broken.  I  think  Peter  did  it  with 
that  big  club.  It  did  look  so  big,  coming  down 


"A  STRANGER,   YET  AT  HOME,"  195 

on  me,  and  I  put  up  my  arm.  But  I  got  off  in 
decently  honorable  shape,  I  flatter  myself,  — 
Quaker  as  I  am.  I  want  to  get  to  Lexville 
without  any  one  hearing  of  it.  I  wouldn't 
have  Mr.  Coggeshall  know  it  to-night  for  the 
world,  because  —  it  can  do  no  harm  to  tell  you 
—  he  has  agreed  to  give  notice  to-morrow  that 
he  will  accede  to  some  of  the  demands  of  the 
strikers.  It  is  right  he  should  do  so ;  but  if  he 
were  to  hear  of  this  affair  first,  he  would  cer- 
tainly misinterpret  it,  and  jump  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  it  was  an  act  of  deliberate  hostility, 
and  I  am  afraid  he  would  refuse  to  do  what  he 
has  promised  to  do." 

Kingman  spoke  slowly,  and  leaned  heavily 
against  the  side  of  the  buggy,  looking  faint. 
Prudence  drove  steadily,  keeping  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  mare.  The  sky  was  darkly  overcast,  ex- 
cept around  the  horizon,  where  bits  of  blue 
showed  between  fleecy  drifts,  and  in  the  west 
a  glory  of  many  colors,  soft  yet  bright,  spread 
itself  above  the  distant  hills.  Here  and  there 
the  sun  behind  the  clouds  poured  its  rays  down, 
straight  and  luminous,  across  this  belt  of  opal- 
ine tints,  melting  gold  into  a  dream  of  rose- 
color,  and  lower  still  dissolving  all  elements 
in  an  enchanting  haze,  which  lay  upon  those 
wonderful  hills  of  mysterious  blue. 

Prue  drove  directly  to  Dr.  Salisbury's  house, 


196  "A  STRANGER,   JET  AT  HOME." 

when  they  reached  Lexville.  The  doctor  re- 
ceived them  in  his  office.  He  knew  Prue 
slightly,  and  held  out  to  her  a  thin  brown 
hand,  working  his  features,  while  he  made  a 
speech  of  formal  welcome.  She  briefly  ex- 
plained her  presence,  and  he  cried  out  de- 
lightedly,— 

"  And  you  want  to  make  a  conspirator  of  me, 
and  let  me  secrete  Kingman  for  twenty-four 
hours,  till  the  affair  has  blown  over  !  I  see,  I 
see.  He  shall  stay  here.  I  '11  keep  him  in  my 
own  house,  and  doctor  him  privately.  I  like 
it !  It  carries  me  back  to  my  youth,  and  re- 
minds me  of  the  fugitive  slaves  my  father  hid 
in  his  cellar." 

While  he  talked  and  ogled,  the  doctor  placed 
his  patient  on  the  sofa,  and  prepared  to  exam- 
ine his  injuries.  Then  said  Prudence,  who  had 
remained  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, — 

"  Now  I  will  leave  you,  Darius." 

Kingman  feebly  smiled,  and  held  up  to  her 
his  left  hand.  As  she  took  it  she  saw  her  sis- 
ter's wedding  ring  on  his  finger. 

"  You  have  been  very  good,"  he  said.  "  Some 
day,  I  '11  try  to  thank  you." 

She  made  him  no  answer,  but  bade  the  doc- 
tor good-by,  and  left  them  together. 

"  She  's  a  woman,  now,"  said  the  surgeon,  as 
he  threw  a  puckered  glance  after  her.  Darius 


"A  STRANGER,   YET  AT  HOME."  197 

raised  himself  slightly,  stared  at  the  doctor,  but 
uttered  no  word. 

The  secret  was  kept  till  Mr.  Coggeshall  was 
too  deeply  pledged  to  conciliation  to  permit  of 
his  drawing  back.  When  the  story  did  leak 
out  it  enhanced  Kingman's  popularity  very 
considerably.  Murphy  disappeared  from  town, 
but  McNamara  made  a  pilgrimage  to  Lexville, 
procured  an  interview  with  Darius,  and  be- 
haved after  such  a  fashion  of  sincere  regret  that 
the  wounded  man  became  the  young  fellow's 
staunch  friend. 

Kingman  was,  however,  quite  ill  for  several 
days.  Dr.  Salisbury  consequently  formed  a 
habit  of  going  to  Mr.  Warner's  to  report  the 
daily  fluctuations  in  the  condition  of  his  "  se- 
questered hero,"  as  he  called  the  patient. 

"  He  'd  be  tol'ably  good-looking,"  said  Mrs. 
Warner  one  day,  as  she  watched  the  physician 
carefully  tying  his  horse  at  the  gate,  "  if  he  'd 
only  let  his  face  alone,  an'  not  try  to  keep  his 
features  promenading  round  his  countenance. 
He  ain't  so  very  old,  neither.  They  say  his 
hair  turned  white  when  his  wife  died.  I  don't 
believe  he  's  a  day  over  fifty.  I  say,  Prue," 
with  a  prolonged  but  feminine  whistle,  "  that 's 
why  he  's  so  fond  of  comin'  here." 

"What's  why?"  asked  Prue,  incoherently; 
but  her  mother  only  snorted  forth  a  laugh,  and 


198  "A  STRANGER,   YET  AT  HOME" 

retreated  to  the  kitchen,  unkindly  leaving  Prue 
alone  to  receive  the  doctor.  The  matron  sat 
down  by  the  stove,  and  tittered  over  the  boil- 
ing cabbage  and  corned  beef. 

"  To  think,"  murmured  she,  "  of  anybody's 
wantin'  our  Prue  !  " 

Prudence  met  the  doctor  with  flaming  cheeks, 
which  made  her  almost  handsome,  so  that  his 
ardor  was  fired  ;  and  although  he  did  not  ac- 
tually make  love  to  her,  something  in  his  man- 
ner left  her  convinced,  when  he  finally  bowed 
himself  away,  that  under  all  the  play  of  his 
hands,  and  the  twisting  and  screwing  of  eyes 
and  mouth,  lurked  a  definite  intention  towards 
herself. 

When  alone,  she  laughed,  like  her  mother, 
and  echoed  her  thought,  saying,  "  The  idea  of 
his  wanting  me  !  Why,  it  's  ten  years  since 
any  one  wanted  me.  He's  a  nice  man,  too, 
and  the  last  one  was  such  a  fool !  " 

But  after  she  had  stood  still  a  minute,  laugh- 
ing in  a  helpless,  hysterical  fashion,  she  sud- 
denly fled  to  her  room,  as  she  had  done  the 
afternoon  she  had  seen  Darius  walking  with 
Maggie  and  Tessy.  This  time  she  threw  her- 
self on  the  floor,  and  cried,  and  cried. 

Nevertheless,  the  knowledge  that  she  had  or 
could  have  a  suitor  proved  in  many  ways  a 
balm  to  Prue's  heart ;  and  finally,  rising  from 


"  A  STRANGER,   YET  AT  HOME."  199 

the  floor,  she  took  from  a  box  a  spring  hat,  and 
deliberately  garnished  it  with  a  modest  spray 
of  flowers,  which  she  had  laid  aside  when  her 
self-crucifying  mood  had  been  strong  upon  her. 
She  had  no  idea  of  trying  to  be  a  girl  again, 
or  of  marrying  any  one;  but  she  did  not  feel 
half  so  much  like  an  irredeemable  old  maid  as 
she  had  felt  for  many  months. 

Dr.  Salisbury  reported  to  his  patient  the  visits 
he  made  to  the  Warners,  and  Darius  responded 
that  he  was  glad  to  hear  they  were  well. 

He  grew  very  restless  in  his  confinement,  and 
made  attempts  to  vary  the  monotony  of  his  life 
in  ways  that  retarded  his  recovery.  The  doc- 
tor fretted  at  him. 

"  I  told  Mrs.  Warner,  this  morning,  that  you 
were  worse  than  a  whole  circus  to  manage." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  Did  you  ever  try  to 
manage  a  circus  ?  " 

"  Kingman,  why  don't  you  say  thee  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to." 

The  doctor  laughed  at  Darius'  irritation.  "  I 
guess  I  '11  have  you  all  right  soon,"  he  said ; 
"but  you  must  be  patient,  and  not  do  such 
abominably  rash  things.  Have  prudence,  King- 
man, —  have  prudence." 

Darius  rose  to  his  feet,  and  looked  at  the  phy- 
sician a  moment,  before  he  said  quietly,  "  I  have 
been  a  fool,  doctor,  and  I  will  have  prudence." 


200  "A  STRANGER,  YET  AT  HOME.1' 

But  when  he  was  alone,  he  took  from  his 
drawer  a  little  velvet  case,  and  opening,  looked 
in  it,  long  and  wistfully.  His  heart  was  full  of 
very  pure  emotion,  and  yet  it  almost  seemed  to 
him  as  if  he  were  withdrawing  himself  from 
the  sphere  of  some  dear  and  holy  influence.  He 
had  arrived  at  one  of  those  crises  when  the  soul 
is  simultaneously  possessed  by  feelings  and  im- 
pulses which,  tested  by  any  temporal  standard, 
are  absolutely  inconsistent,  the  one  with  the 
other.  At  such  times  a  man  is  both  constant 
and  inconstant,  desiring  that  from  which  he 
shrinks.  He  longs  for  one  woman,  and  notwith- 
standing that  longing  he  would,  if  he  could, 
fling  his  immortal  being  down  before  the  mem- 
ory of  another.  The  contradictory  passions 
which  swayed  Kingman  mocked  his  reason,  with 
their  suggestion  of  the  pitiful  futility  of  all 
search  into  the  mysteries  of  human  existence. 
Yet  even  at  that  moment,  his  spirit,  like  that  of 
many  men  who  have  had  experience  kindred  to 
his,  indignantly  protested  that  it  would  forever 
interrogate  the  secrets  of  its  agitation  and  its 
destiny. 

"God  forgive  me,"  he  murmured  at  last, 
"  and  Mary  forgive  me  too,  for  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  am  less  or  more  worthy,  since  I  have 
come  to  care  for  this  other." 

With  a  sigh  he  closed  the  little  case,  and  it 


"A  STRANGER,    YET  AT  HOME."  201 

seemed  to  him  that  he  shut  therein  his  youth 
and  a  life-long  question. 


The  buds  upon  the  trees  were  swollen  just 
enough  to  blur  the  outline  of  the  branches 
against  the  sky,  and  the  air  felt  warm  to  King- 
man's  cheek,  as  he  made  his  way  to  the  side 
door  of  Mr.  Warner's  house,  the  first  time  he 
went  there  after  his  accident.  The  grass  was 
pushing  up  its  elf -like  blades,  sheathed  in 
green,  and  the  voices  of  children  came  calling 
through  the  distance  with  a  shrill  sweetness. 
The  world  looked  happy,  and  Darius  felt  so  as 
Prudence  came  through  the  yard  to  meet  him, 
with  welcoming  eyes.  She  had  been  feeding 
some  pet  pigeons,  and  a  dove  was  perched  upon 
her  shoulder,  —  a  young  bird,  pure  white  and 
exquisitely  slender.  It  looked  not  like  a  crea- 
ture, but  like  the  soul  of  some  being. 

Darius  bent  over  the  woman's  hand,  and  the 
dove  took  flight,  its  wings  whirring  close  above 
his  head.  When  he  raised  his  eyes  he  saw  Dr. 
Salisbury  standing  in  a  familiar  attitude  in  the 
doorway.  It  seemed  to  Darius  that  a  shadow 
had  fallen  across  the  sky. 

They  all  went  round  to  the  front  porch,  where 
they  seated  themselves,  and  chatted  lightly 
about  the  wonderful  warmth  of  the  afternoon. 


202  "4  STRANGER,   YET  AT  HOME." 

The  doctor  was  fluent.  Kingman  grew  silent. 
Prudence  sat  quietly  between  the  two  men. 

"I'm  like  Gertrude,"  she  thought:  "having 
got  one  sweetheart,  they  swarm" 

But  she  did  not  really  think  that  Darius  had 
come  a-wooing.  She  only  felt  very  glad  to  see 
him,  and  very  content,  also,  that  her  womanly 
attractions  should  be  vindicated  in  his  presence 
by  the  doctor's  attentive  manner. 

"  I  want  a  glass  of  water !  "  cried  Kingman, 
at  last,  springing  to  his  feet  in  helpless  impa- 
tience. 

Prudence  rose.  "  No,"  said  he,  "  I  am  going 
to  the  well." 

"  You  can't  draw  the  bucket." 

*.'  I  '11  help  you,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  can  do  it  myself,"  retorted  he.  They  fol- 
lowed him,  nevertheless,  and  the  doctor  applied 
himself  to  the  well-rope,  while  Darius  stood  by, 
fuming.  Prue  went  into  the  house  for  a  glass. 
As  she  came  out  again,  the  white  dove  flew 
down  and  hovered  about  her.  The  doctor  was 
hauling  up  the  bucket.  Darius  went  forward 
and  met  Prue.  He  looked  her  straight  in  the 
eyes,  and  said  in  a  low  tone,  — 

"  Choose  between  that  man  and  me." 

"  Where  's  your  tumbler  ?  "  cried  the  doctor, 
as  he  landed  the  dripping  bucket.  Prue  filled 
the  glass,  and  handed  it  to  Darius.  The  doctor 


"4  STRANGER,   YET  AT  HOME."  203 

stood  only  a  yard  away,  whisking  some  drops  of 
water  off  his  clothes,  but  his  back  was  turned. 

"  Which  is  it  ? "  asked  Kingman,  over  the 
glass. 

"  Why,  you,  Darius,  of  course,"  said  she. 


AND  JOE. 


THEODOKA  JUSTICE  sat,  with  a  wearily  com- 
fortable air,  before  an  open  fire  in  the  sitting- 
room  of  her  friend,  Margaret  Denton,  M.  D. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,  I  have  lost  my  ambi- 
tions," said  Theodora.  "  I  used  to  have  such 
fine  dreams."  She  laughed  a  little.  "  I  meant 
to  do  a  few  things  for  the  amusement  of  other 
people,  and  a  great  many  for  my  own  pleasure. 
This  morning  I  came  across  a  plan  I  drew  last 
year  for  a  Gothic  library.  I  also  found  a  pro- 
gramme I  made  at  the  same  time  for  a  series 
of  literary  and  musical  entertainments,  and  a 
list  of  guests  to  be  invited  from  New  York  and 
Boston.  With  this  paper  was  another;  and 
what  do  you  suppose  that  was  ?  A  set  of 
colored  designs  I  had  drawn  for  pre-Raphaelite 
costumes  wherewith  to  adorn  my  own  person. 
They  were  quite  pretty,  too,  though  you  '11 
find  that  hard  to  believe ;  but  I  don't  care  for 


AND  JOE.  205 

them  now,  nor  for  the  library,  nor  the  par- 
ties." 

The  smile  was  dreary  with  which  she  looked 
up  for  an  answer,  but  before  her  friend  could 
speak  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  ser- 
va'nt  came  in  to  say  "  Ann  Reilly  was  very 
bad,"  and  wanted  the  doctor. 

"  Let  me  go  with  you,"  said  Theodora. 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Margaret ;  *'  but  it  is 
not  a  pleasant  sight  you  will  see." 

Miss  Justice  was  the  daughter  of  the  manu- 
facturer who  owned  the  larger  portion  of  the 
factories  and  houses  of  the  town,  but  she  knew 
nothing  about  the  people  whom  she  visited  with 
Margaret  that  night.  It  was  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  been  in  any  of  their  homes,  and  all 
the  stirrings  of  her  conscience  towards  them 
had  hitherto  been  quieted  by  a  half-formed 
resolution  that  some  time  she  would  build  a 
Gothic  library  or  found  an  art  gallery  for  them. 
Now,  with  new,  vague  thoughts,  she  followed 
Margaret,  who  took  the  occasion  to  visit  several 
patients.  They  toiled  up  dark,  narrow  stairs. 
They  went  down  into  basements.  They  found 
a  dying  girl's  chamber  lighted  with  tapers,  and 
the  garment  in  which  she  was  to  be  buried  ly- 
ing beside  her  on  the  bed.  And  then  they 
went  into  a  pleasant  sitting-room,  belonging  to 
a  French  Canadian  family.  A  carpet  was  on 


206  AND  JOE. 

the  floor,  a  bright-colored  cloth  over  the  table ; 
the  chimney  shelf  was  covered  with  gaudy  toys 
and  ornaments.  Some  flower-pots  were  on  the 
window  sill,  and  a  melodeon  stood  against  the 
wall.  Three  or  four  handsome  girls  sat  in 
painted  wooden  chairs  and  talked  eagerly  with 
the  doctor. 

After  leaving  this  place,  Miss  Justice  and 
her  companion  turned  towards  home,  but  had 
gone  only  a  few  steps  when  they  came  upon  a 
crowd  of  jeering  boys  surrounding  a  lad  who 
sat  forlorn  and  silent  upon  the  sidewalk.  A  red 
light  from  the  window  of  a  little  oyster  shop 
streamed  about  them  all. 

"  He  had  an  awful  fit  this  mornin',"  said  one 
boy. 

"I  say,  Joe,  did  you  have  any  dinner  to- 
day?" shouted  another,  as  he  turned  a  somer- 
sault that  brought  him  directly  in  the  way  of 
the  two  ladies  as  they  approached  the  group. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  asked  Theodora, 
sternly. 

A  chorus  of  voices  answered,  "  He 's  starvin', 
he  is !  " 

"  Starving !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Who  is 
he?" 

The  boys  giggled,  and  were  silent  a  moment, 
till  a  red-headed  Irish  urchin  said,  with  a  grin, 
"  Joe  Huckleberry,  we  call  him.  His  mother's 


AND  JOE.  207 

turned  him  out.  I  gin  him  a  piece  of  bread 
this  mornin',  an'  he  sleeps  round,  in  the  Com- 
pany barn  an'  woodsheds." 

"  Joe  Huckleberry  ! "  repeated  Theodora. 

"  Yes,  that 's  what  we  call  him.  Can't  say 
his  name  right.  He  's  French." 

Margaret  placed  her  hand  on  Joe's  shoulder. 
The  boy  had  remained  all  this  while  gazing  on 
the  ground,  apparently  waiting  in  an  unin- 
terested mood  for  some  one  to  do  something 
with  him.  He  looked  up  now  with  a  silly 
smile. 

"  He  has  fits,"  said  the  Irish  boy. 

"  Awful  I  "  cried  another.  "  I  seen  him  bite 
the  ground,  jest  like  a  dog,  in  one  on  'em." 

"  They  comes  on  anywheres  —  in  the  street, 
or  in  the  mill,  jest  where  he  happens  to  be," 
added  the  red-haired  youth,  confidentially. 

"  Joe,  has  your  mother  turned  you  out-of- 
doors  ?  "  asked  Margaret. 

"  No,"  said  the  boy ;  "  it  's  my  brother-in- 
kw." 

"  Do  you  live  with  your  brother-in-law  ?  " 

"  I  did,  but  he  's  turned  me  out." 

"  What  did  he  do  it  for  ?  "  asked  Theodora. 

"  Dunno,"  said  Joe.  "  He  never  liked  me, 
nohow.  Could  n't  bear  me  afore  he  married 
my  sister.  Half  killed  me,  one  day,  lickin'  me 
in  the  street,  jest  for  nothin'.  Come  across 
me,  an'  thought  he  would,  I  s'pose." 


208  AND  JOE. 

"  When  did  he  turn  you  out  ?  " 
-  "  Night  'fore  last." 

"  And  where  have  you  slept  ?  " 

"  Got  in  ag'in  that  night,  after  they  was  all 
asleep,  an'  went  up  in  the  garret  an'  slep'." 

"  And  last  night  ?  " 

"  Got  into  the  Company  barn." 

"  What  have  you  had  to  eat  ?  " 

"  Nothin'  much." 

"  Where  is  your  mother  ?  " 

"  She  lives  with  my  brother-in-law." 

"  Did  she  want  you  turned  out  ?  " 

"  No.     She  gin  me  some  bread  yesterday  an' 
this  mornin'." 

"  Is  she  kind  to  you  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  Is  your  sister  kind  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  Dunno." 

"  Do  you  work  in  the  mill  ?  " 
•  "  I  did.     I  worked  up  to  Slade's ;  but  my 
father  come  away  from  there,  an'  lef  me,  an' 
then  I  was  turned  off,  an'  I  come  down  here." 

"  Oh,   you   have   a   father  ?     Where    is  he 
now?" 

"  He  's  at  my  brother-in-law's." 

"  Did  he  want  you  sent  out  into  the  street  ?  " 

"  He  said  I  might  as  well  be." 


AND  JOE.  209 

"  Why  don't  you  try  to  get  work  in  the  mill 
here?" 

"  I  don't  think  they  'd  give  me  none." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  've  worked  here  afore." 

Theodora  smiled  at  this  ingenuous  confes- 
sion, but  said  gently,  "  Come  with  me,  and  I  '11 
see  that  you  are  taken  care  of  to-night." 

Joe  rose,  and  stood  slouching  at  the  lady's 
side,  while  she  said  to  the  Irish  urchin,  "  Will 
you  go  and  tell  Joe's  mother  and  his  sister's 
husband  that  I  want  them  to  come  up  and  see 
me  this  evening,  if  possible  ?  " 

"  Dunno  who  you  be,"  said  the  boy,  promptly. 

Theodora  felt  slightly  ashamed  to  find  her- 
self a  stranger  to  these  boys,  but  was  relieved 
when  two  voices  whispered  loudly,  "  It 's  Miss 
Justice,"  and  the  youngster,  thus  informed, 
darted  off  on  his  errand. 

"  Now,  Joe,"  said  the  lady,  "  come  with 
me." 

They  started,  the  lad  slinking  along  beside 
his  stately  companion,  while  Margaret  walked 
thoughtfully  one  or  two  steps  in  advance.  The 
crowd  of  boys  stared,  giggled,  whooped,  fol- 
lowed, and  at  last  one  voice  cried  out,  — 

"  He,  he!  Joe 's  got  a  gal !  " 

"  Why  don't  you  give  her  your  arm,  Joe  ?  " 
shouted  another. 

14 


210  AND  JOE. 

Theodora's  blood  was  on  fire,  but  she  never 
turned  her  head.  They  were  not  many  rods 
from  her  home.  Did  those  few  feet  of  roadway 
divide  civilization  from  barbarism  ?  Was  it 
God's  fault,  or  was  it  partly  hers,  that  men  and 
manners  changed  thus,  as  one  went  "  down 
street  "  from  her  dwelling  ? 

"  Keep  close  to  me,  Joe,"  she  said,  but  her 
voice  shook  with  indignant  shame.  Margaret 
waited  for  them  to  come  up  with  her.  The 
boys,  still  hooting  and  chuckling,  gradually  dis- 
persed, and  the  trio  went  on  unmolested. 

The  two  women  took  Joe  into  the  kitchen, 
and  gave  him  supper.  When  Theodora  exam- 
ined her  protege  in  the  light,  her  heart  sank. 
He  was  about  fourteen  years  old,  slender  and 
loosely  made.  His  hands  were  long,  dirty  and 
repulsive.  He  had  reddish,  watery  eyes  and  a 
small,  pinched  nose.  His  mouth  hung  open,  and 
showed  traces  of  tobacco  juice  about  it.  The 
whole  face  was  pale,  unhealthy,  and  idiotic. 

"  He  looks  like  a  parasite  on  humanity," 
whispered  Theodora  to  Margaret ;  "  the  crea- 
ture of  a  horrible,  mocking  chance." 

"  God  knows  why  he  lives,"  said  Margaret, 
simply. 

Theodora  answered,  smiling,  "  Evidently, 
science  has  n't  spoiled  your  religion  yet." 

In  process  of  time  Joe's  brother-in-law,  An- 


AND  JOE.  211 

drew  Moore,  arrived,  and  was  ushered  into  the 
dining-room,  where  the  ladies  proceeded  to 
cross-examine  him.  He  was  a  good  -  looking 
young  fellow  about  twenty-five  years  old.  He 
admitted  at  once  that  he  had  set  the  lad  adrift. 

"I  was  in  hopes,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "as  he 
would  get  took  up,  an'  sent  to  the  Reform 
School.  I  've  got  the  whole  family  on  my 
hands,  —  the  old  man  'n'  the  old  woman,  an' 
the  little  uns.  My  woman  hain't  worked  much 
since  her  baby  was  born,  though  the  baby 's 
three  or  four  months  old.  We  are  considerable 
in  debt.  Joe 's  just  the  ruin  of  his  fam'ly. 
They  can't  stay  nowhere  on  account  of  this  boy. 
They  git  turned  out  of  every  place  they  go  to. 
You  know  rich  folks,  when  they  has  some  one 
as  ain't  quite  right,  can  hire  somebody  to  keep 
'em  out  of  mischief ;  but  it  comes  hard  on  poor 
folks,  as  can't  spare  neither  time  nor  money  to 
take  care  of  'em." 

"  But  don't  you  think  it  was  cruel  to  turn  him 
out,  when  he  had  nowhere  to  go  ?  "  asked  The- 
odora, a  little  astounded  by  the  young  man's 
cool  way  of  looking  at  the  matter. 

"  Well,  you  see,  miss,  it  was  a  question  be- 
tween turnin'  him  out  or  the  rest  of  'em.  I 
can't  feed  'em  all,  even  with  old  Huckleberry's 
help.  He  '11  drink  most  all  he  earns,  any  way ; 
an'  Annie  's  that  sickly  she  ought  not  to  work 


212  AND  JOE. 

at  all.  Then  Joe  's  dangerous  when  he  's  mad. 
He  throwed  a  stone  as  big  as  my  two  fists  right 
through  the  kitchen  winder,  an'  then  I  told  him 
to  clear  out.  It  might  ha'  killed  the  baby,  let 
alone  my  havin'  to  pay  for  the  winder." 
"  He  says  you  beat  him,"  said  Theodora. 

»'         •/ 

"  Well,  I  've  tried  to  lick  the  badness  out  of 
him,"  frankly  admitted  the  young  man.  "  You 
can,  out  of  some  boys,  you  know." 

Finally  young  Moore  was  induced  to  promise 
to  take  Joe  in  for  a  few  days,  till  Miss  Justice 
could  make  some  other  provision  for  the  unfor- 
tunate lad.  As  Moore  went  out  of  the  door, 
Joe's  mother  appeared.  She  had  been  at  a 
neighbor's,  and  had  only  just  received  Miss  Jus- 
tice's message.  She  seemed  to  be  a  decent  wo- 
man, of  English  origin,  though  she  said  she  was 
born  and  had  lived  in  Canada  and  the  States 
all  her  life.  Her  first  husband,  the  father  of 
Andrew's  wife,  was  an  Englishman;  Joe  and 
her  three  younger  boys  were  the  children  of  her 
second  marriage  with  a  French  Canadian.  No, 
her  husband  didn't  work  much,  and  he  did 
drink ;  but  he  was  always  good-natured,  and  she 
had  n't  no  fault  to  find  with  him.  Joe  was  the 
trial  of  her  life.  If  he  had  work,  he  would  n't 
stick  to  it.  He  bothered  the  neighbors,  and  the 
family  were  forced  to  move  from  one  place  to 
another  continually.  They  had  moved  four 


AND  JOE.  213 

times  in  a  little  over  two  years.  They  were  at 
"  Slade's,"  the  first  of  the  winter,  and  had  been 
pretty  comfortable  there,  though  it  was  a  hard 
life  for  her,  making  the  little  they  could  earn 
feed  them  all.  She  could  n't  ever  so  much  as 
think  of  getting  clothes  from  their  wages.  The 
three  younger  children  did  not  go  to  school,  be- 
cause they  had  no  shoes ;  and  it  was  surprising 
to  see  how  much  they  ate,  for  all  they  stayed  in 
the  house  so  much,  —  butter  especially.  Nights 
she  had  plenty  to  do,  getting  breakfast  ready 
and  drying  her  husband's  and  Joe's  shoes  for 
the  next  morning.  There  was  so  much  snow 
that  winter,  it  kept  their  shoes  wet  nearly  all 
the  time.  She  had  to  wash  and  dry  their 
clothes  in  the  night,  too.  And  Joe  was  such  a 
torment,  and  he  acted  bad  about  his  work ;  and 
so  they  packed  up,  and  she  come  down  here ; 
and  then  his  father  come  too,  and  left  the  boy 
there,  hoping  he  would  get  "  took  up  "  and  put 
somewhere.  She  should  n't  like  to  complain  of 
him  herself,  but  if  he  had  got  into  some  trouble 
and  been  put  into  the  Reform  School,  may  be 
it  wouldn't  have  been  so  bad  for  him.  She 
had  n't  done  nothing  but  cry  the  last  three  days ; 
but  she  could  n't  blame  Andrew  for  not  wanting 
him  round,  after  he  throwed  that  stone  in  the 
window  which  came  so  near  hitting  the  baby. 
Margaret  and  Theodora  scarcely  knew 


214  AND  JOE. 

whether  to  blame  or  sympathize,  and  both  sus- 
pected that  her  husband's  drinking  had  more  to 
do  with  the  family  destitution  than  the  wife 
would  admit.  They  dismissed  her  with  some 
presents  of  food,  and  let  her  take  Joe  with  her, 
poor  Joe,  who  stumbled  a  little  going  out  into 
the  darkness. 

Theodora  came  back  from  the  door  with  a 
puzzled  look. 

"  Joe  is  the  problem,"  she  said.  "  His  family 
can't  solve  it.  Can  I  ?  " 

"  You  can  try,"  said  Margaret.  "  Dear,  ought 
you  not  to  know  these  people,  and  seek  to  be 
their  friend?" 

Theodora  threw  out  her  arms  with  a  mourn- 
ful gesture. 

"  A  friend,"  she  said,  —  "  that  is  what  they 
need ;  but  for  me  !  Was  I  made  for  Joe  ?  " 

Margaret's  pulses  beat  in  sympathy  with  this 
rebellious  outcry  of  a  disappointed  heart,  but 
her  soul  saw  farther  than  did  Theodora's 
dimmed  eyes,  and  she  answered,  — 

"  Not  more  than  Joe  was  made  for  you.  You 
need  some  one  to  work  for.  It  may  be  God 
made  him  to  keep  you  from  aimless  idleness." 


AND  JOE.  215 

n. 

Andrew  Moore  walked  away  from  Miss  Jus- 
tice's in  a  bad  humor.  It  was  the  first  time  he 
had  ever  been  in  a  grand  house,  the  first  time 
he  had  ever  sat  in  a  handsomely  appointed  room 
and  talked  with  an  elegant  woman.  Theodora's 
calmness  irritated  him.  He  resented  her  supe- 
riority. She  would  have  looked  very  lovely  to 
an  eye  educated  to  appreciate  the  beautiful  head 
covered  with  light  brown  hair,  the  delicate  fea- 
tures, the  supple  motions  and  the  waving  lines 
of  her  figure ;  but  this  young  fellow  perceived 
none  of  these  perfections.  He  only  felt  that  she 
belonged  to  another  world  from  his,  and  was  an- 
gry because  he  seemed  to  himself  to  be  in  some 
indefinite  way  an  inferior  in  her  presence.  He 
was  vexed  becaused  she  had  constrained  him, 
and  made  him  promise  to  take  Joe  back. 

"  I  dare  say,"  he  muttered,  "  that  girl  thinks 
she  can  boss  everybody  in  this  village  if  she  's  a 
mind  to." 

Then  he  thought  of  the  little  weak-minded 
woman  who  waited  for  him,  with  her  sickly 
child,  in  his  squalid  home,  and  grew  angrier 
still,  and,  calling  his  sins  and  follies  "  his  luck," 
he  cursed  the  evil  fortune  that  had  joined  him 
to  this  ill-starred  family. 

"  I  've  more  'n  half  a  mind  to  cut  the  whole 


216  AND  JOE. 

concern,"  he  muttered.  "  I  meant  fair  enough, 
as  fair  as  I  could,  when  I  married  her,  but  I 
did  n't  quite  count  in  Joe !  She  would  n't  do 
nothin'  if  I  left  her.  They  're  too  poor  to  go  to 
law.  I  don't  care  a  dime  for  her,  —  and  yet 
I  'd  kinder  hate  to  leave  her.  She  's  such  a  lit- 
tle fool." 

Andrew  Moore  was  a  native  American  citi- 
zen, having  been  born  two  weeks  after  his  father 
and  mother  landed  in  this  country.  They  were 
Irish  Protestants  of  a  low  class.  Andrew  grew 
up  in  a  manufacturing  town,  and  graduated 
early  from  school  into  the  mill.  In  due  time  he 
became  a  mule-spinner.  There  were  absolutely 
no  refining  influences  brought  to  bear  upon  his 
young  life.  American  republicanism  has  re- 
lieved the  child  of  foreign  parentage  from  the 
somewhat  despotic  discipline  of  the  Old  World, 
but  it  has  not  always,  even  in  New  England, 
provided  much  to  take  its  place. 

It  is  a  notorious  fact  that  the  children  of  Irish 
parents  are  a  turbulent,  disturbing  growth  in 
that  social  condition  which  we  in  besotted  con- 
tentment persist  in  naming  our  civilization,  not- 
withstanding the  fact  that  it  is  very  inadequate 
to  produce  the  best  results  in  all  its  compo- 
nent parts.  In  manufacturing  towns,  employers 
might  do  much  to  elevate  their  work-people, 
if  they  would  acknowledge  that  a  moral  tie 


AND  JOE.  217 

exists  between  the  classes  bound  by  the  busi- 
ness relation.  Manufacturers,  also,  would  do 
wisely  to  remember  that  semi-barbarism  is  very 
dangerous  when  dowered  with  the  power  and 
freedom  of  democracy.  If  the  sense  of  duty  is 
not  strong  enough  to  induce  the  providing  of 
time  and  means  for  more  education  of  our  igno- 
rant people,  it  may  be  well  that  danger  stands 
ready  to  be  the  safeguard  of  the  republic  it 
seems  to  threaten.  Fear  may  supplement  the 
tardy  conscience  of  the  rich  and  rouse  them  to 
the  necessary  action  to  secure  the  enlightenment 
of  the  poor. 

Andrew  spent  the  days  of  his  youth  in  the 
mill,  his  evenings  in  the  street  and  in  saloons, 
his  nights  in  the  filthy  air  of  crowded  tene- 
ments, while  the  Sundays  were  passed  in  play- 
ing games  of  base-ball,  or  attending  cock-fights. 
The  Protestant  churches  where  he  lived  did  not 
greatly  concern  themselves  about  the  young 
Irishman's  spiritual  welfare.  He  would  have 
stood  more  chance  of  receiving  some  religious 
training  had  he  been  a  Catholic,  under  the  un- 
sleeping watch  of  Rome. 

Andrew  had  come  to  Newbridge  a  little  more 
than  a  year  before  this  February  evening.  Joe's 
family  were  then  living  there.  Joe's  half-sis- 
ter, poor  little  Annie,  toiling  day  after  day,  with 
scarcely  a  single  girlish  hope  or  pleasure,  had 


218  AND  JOE. 

almost  immediately  fallen  in  love  with  Andrew. 
It  was  a  genuine  love,  though  probably  a  feeble 
one,  as  the  pitiful  creature  had  hardly  vitality 
enough  for  a  strong  emotion.  He  had  been 
amused  with  the  tribute  of  silly  affection  laid  at 
his  feet,  and,  although  the  girl  was  neither 
pretty  nor  winning,  he  had  been  moved,  occa- 
sionally, when  passing  her  in  the  mill  entries,  to 
give  her  a  rude  kiss,  or  a  jocular  clutch  of  the 
arm.  Joe  noted  these  evidences  of  intimacy, 
and  told  of  them  as  a  joke.  Andrew,  hearing 
of  this  tale-bearing,  fell  upon  Joe  in  the  street, 
and  beat  him  violently.  The  matter  came  at 
last  to  the  ears  of  the  French  step-father,  who 
was  honestly  fond  of  Annie,  and  who  swore  he 
would  have  no  "fooling"  round  the  girl.  "S'e 
be  silly,"  he  said,  "  but  s'e  no  be  bad.  He  s'all 
marry  or  he  s'all  quit." 

There  was  a  dance  in  one  of  the  tenements 
the  night  after  old  Huckleberry  made  this  dec- 
laration. Dances  in  the  houses  were  forbid- 
den, but  the  "  Company's "  rule  was  often 
evaded.  The  festivity  began  at  ten,  and  lasted 
till  dawn.  It  was  a  rough  bacchanalian  affair, 
and  before  morning  Annie's  step-father  ex- 
torted from  Andrew,  who  was  then  half  drunk, 
a  promise  that  he  would  marry  Annie  the  next 
day.  The  promise  was  fulfilled,  though  the 
bridegroom  was  perfectly  sober  when  the  cere- 


AND  JOE.  219 

mony  took  place.  A  little  genuine  pity  for 
Annie  urged  Andrew  to  this  step,  but  the  act 
also  pleased  him  because  he  felt  that  he  thus 
defied,  and  asserted  his  complete  independence 
of  his  past  life.  The  wedding  was  celebrated 
according  to  Catholic  rites.  Soon  afterwards 
the  Huckleberrys  moved  away  from  the  village. 

Andrew,  after  his  marriage,  went  to  work  in 
a  neighboring  town.  Annie  stayed  at  her 
place  in  Mr.  Justice's  mill.  Soon  came  a  strike 
in  the  factory  where  Andrew  was  employed. 
He  joined  in  it,  and  for  some  months  Annie  sup- 
ported them  both.  Fortunately  the  strike  con- 
cluded, and  Andrew  began  to  work  in  time  to 
allow  Annie  to  leave  the  mill  a  few  weeks 
before  her  baby  was  born.  Then  they  set  up 
housekeeping,  and  Andrew  changed  work  again 
and  went  into  Mr.  Justice's  mill.  They  sent 
for  Annie's  mother  to  come  and  keep  house  and 
care  for  the  baby,  when  Annie  returned  to  the 
factory.  The  French  father  was  expected  to 
support  his  own  children,  and  they  hoped  to 
get  rid  of  Joe ;  but  Huckleberry  had  thus  far 
done  very  little  towards  maintaining  his  part 
of  the  family,  Joe  had  come  back,  Annie  had 
been  unable  to  work  much,  and  Andrew,  owing 
to  her  illness  and  his  own  long  idleness  during 
the  strike,  was  heavily  in  debt. 

On  all  these  things  the  young  man  moodily 


220  AND  JOE. 

pondered,  as  he  walked  slowly  down  the  street, 
after  his  interview  with  Miss  Justice.  He 
thought  also  of  something  else,  —  something 
which  seemed  to  rise  like  a  real  substance  be- 
fore his  eyes,  till,  as  he  came  into  the  light  of 
a  lamp-post  that  guarded  the  bridge  over  the 
river,  he  scarcely  started  as  he  saw  his  thought 
embodied  before  him.  He  stopped,  staring  at 
a  woman,  who  stared  boldly  back  as  soon  as 
she  saw  him.  She  was  young  and  handsome, 
with  curly  reddish-brown  hair,  gray  eyes,  and 
rosy  gleams  in  her  transparent  skin.  She  held 
in  her  hands  a  milliner's  box.  Her  dress  was 
decent,  though  a  little  tawdry.  Andrew  grew 
white  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  How  come  you  here,  Nell  ?  " 

"  How  come  you  here,  I  say,"  retorted  she. 

"  Well,  I  was  n't  lookin'  for  you,"  said  the 
man. 

"  Nor  I  for  you,"  answered  the  woman.  "  I 
was  n't  pining  for  a  sight  of  you,  I  can  tell  you 
that,  when  I  come  to  Newbridge." 

"  It  was  just  a  happen,  then  ?  "  asked  he,  a 
little  uneasily. 

"  Just  a  happen,"  said  she.  "  An'  now,  look 
here !  you  just  let  me  alone,  an'  I  '11  let  you 
alone.  I  'm  not  proud  enough  of  you  to  want 
folks  to  know  you  're  my  husband." 

Andrew  started,  and  looked  into  the  dark- 


AND  JOE.  221 

ness  surrounding  the  lighted  spot  where  they 
stood,  as  though  he  would  search  out  some  pos- 
sible listener.  "  No,  for  God's  sake,  Nell,  don't 
tell !  "  he  cried,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  she.  "  Why  not  ?  It  's  no  such 
uncommon  thing  for  a  drunken  brute  to  beat 
his  wife  as  I  need  be  ashamed  to  tell  of  it. 
The  only  uncommon  thing  in  our  doin's,  as 
near  as  I  can  make  out,  was  that  I  would  n't 
stand  it,  as  most  Irishwomen  do.  I  was  reared 
too  much  like  a  Yankee,  I  guess." 

As  she  spoke,  her  face  and  figure  were  de- 
fined in  strong  light  and  shade,  with  the  dark 
river  as  a  background.  Andrew,  who  had  never 
loved  that  pale-faced  Annie,  who  waited  for 
him  with  her  child  a  few  rods  away,  felt  this 
woman's  beauty  pierce  his  heart  like  a  knife. 

"  You  know,  Nell,"  he  said,  "  I  did  n't  mean 
no  harm.  You  should  n't  mind  what  a  man 
does  when  he  's  drunk,  an'  don't  know  what 
he  's  doin'." 

"  Drunk  or  sober,"  said  Nell,  "it  hurts  when 
a  man  beats  you.  It  hurts  deeper  than  the 
skin,  too." 

"  You  struck  back,"  said  Andrew,  "  or  I 
would  n't  have  hit  so  hard.  It  madded  me." 

"  It  madded  me  !  "  said  she  savagely.  "  An' 
just  you  remember  till  you  die,  Andrew  Moore, 
that  I  've  struck  you  in  the  face.  Now  le'  me 
go." 


222  AND  JOE. 

He  caught 'her  arm.  "  Where  be  you  a-goin', 
Nell,  at  this  timo  o'  night  ? '' 

She  laughed  at  his  suspicion.  "You  fool," 
she  said,  "  I  'm  goin'  up  to  Miss  Justice's,  to 
take  a  bonnet  to  one  of  her  girls." 

"  I  don't  believe  you.     It  's  too  late." 

"  No,  it  ain't,"  she  said,  snappishly.  "  She 
only  ordered  it  this  evenin',  'cause  she  's  goin' 
early  to-morrow  mornin'  to  Blackstone,  to  see 
her  mother,  who 's  sick." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  Miss  Justice  ?  " 

"  No  ;  what  of  her  ?  " 

"  Nothing ;  only  I  hate  her.  Where  do  you 
live  ?  "  he  added,  after  a  minute. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  wish  you  knew  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  where  you  work,"  said 
he.  "  You  're  the  new  girl  in  Mis'  Carey's 
shop." 

"Who  told  you  there  was  a  new  girl 
there  ?  " 

Andrew  made  no  answer,  for  it  was  Annie 
who  had  told  him.  Nell  waited  a  little  while, 
and  looked  at  him  keenly. 

"  Who  told  you  ?  Some  girl,  likely.  Well, 
take  care  what  you  do." 

"  Take  care  yourself,"  he  said,  angrily.  "  If 
you  don't  behave  yourself,  I  will  take  your 
wages." 

This  frightened  Nell,  as  she  thought  she  had 


AND  JOE.  223 

heard  that  a  husband  could  possess  himself  of 
his  wife's  earnings  ;  but  Andrew  knew,  even 
while  he  spoke,  that  his  threat  was  made  in  aim- 
less rage,  since  he  had  far  more  to  fear  than 
she  if  he  announced  himself  as  her  husband. 
Each  faced  the  other  with  distrust,  and  then 
Nell  said  defiantly,  — 

"  I  dare  you  to  lay  a  finger  on  my  money, 
and  don't  you  never  speak  to  me  again,  night 
nor  day.  I  've  had  enough  of  you." 

She  started  up  the  road  along  the  river  bank. 
Andrew  watched  her,  and  a  low  groan  escaped 
his  lips  as  she  vanished  in  the  shadows  of  the 
pines  that  overhung  the  stream.  He  said  aloud 
to  himself,  — 

"  I  ain't  a  Catholic  ;  I  don't  believe  in  them 
popish  ceremonies."  He  paused,  and  then 
added,  "  But,  good  God,  how  shall  I  make 
sure  she  don't  hear  about  Annie  ?  " 

He  went  home  at  length.  The  family  lived 
in  a  basement  tenement ;  that  is,  the  house  was 
built  on  a  slope,  and  the  rooms  they  occupied 
were  level  with  the  ground  in  front,  but  in  the 
back  came  up  against  the  bank.  The  Huckle- 
berry family  had  also  an  attic  where  Joe  slept. 
Andrew  and  Annie  had  a  small  room  to  the 
right  of  the  kitchen.  Huckleberry  and  his 
wife  had  one  at  the  left,  and  beds  were  made 
up  at  night  upon  the  kitchen  floor  for  the 


224  AND  JOE. 

younger  children.  All  the  windows  were  fas- 
tened down,  as  Huckleberry  hated  a  breath  of 
fresh  air.  Much  bad  odor  was  thus  kept  in, 
and  much  was  kept  out ;  for  these  rooms  faced 
a  lane  which  was  used  as  a  back  yard  for  a  row 
of  houses  similar  to  this,  and  heavy  and  vile 
was  the  air  that  clung  to  the  unsavory  ground. 
The  tenants  of  the  houses  were  careless,  and 
did  not  avoid  practices  which  increased  the 
filth  of  their  surroundings.  The  Company,  of 
which  Mr.  Justice  was  a  chief  member,  took 
some  pain&  to  disinfect  and  cleanse  the  lane, 
but  the  pains  were  not  sufficient  to  effect  the 
purpose.  Ignorance  was  at  the  root  of  this,  as 
of  most  other  evils :  the  people  were  too  igno- 
rant to  be  clean  ;  the  owners  were  to  a  great 
extent  ignorant  of  the  uncleanliness  of  the 
people. 

As  Andrew  entered  the  outside  door,  which 
opened  directly  into  the  kitchen,  and  looked 
into  the  dismal  interior  he  thought,  "  What  a 
bright  kitchen  Nell  kept !  She  is  my  wife.  A 
man  has  a  right  —  it 's  his  duty  to  live  with  his 
wife." 

The  mother  sat  with  Joe  crouched  on  the 
floor  beside  her.  The  light  of  the  kerosene 
lamp  fell  full  on  the  boy's  sleepy,  stupid  face. 
He  shrank  into  the  shadow  as  Andrew  came  in. 
Annie  rose  from  another  corner  of  the  room, 


AND  JOE.  225 

laid  her  baby  in  its  cradle,  and  came  forward  to 
meet  her  scowling  husband,  saying,  — 

"  Andrew,  I  've  made  griddle  cakes  for  you. 
Don't  you  want  some  ?  You  did  n't  eat  much 
supper." 

His  eyes  softened  as  they  fell  on  the  puny 
creature,  and  he  said  gently,  "  Yes,  I  '11  eat 
'em  ;  but  you  'd  better  go  to  bed.  You  're  not 
strong  enough  to  set  up  late  an'  go  to  work  early, 
too." 

Pale  little  Annie  smiled  faintly  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  kindly  fl%e  in  which  he  spoke. 
She  had  a  forehead  so  high  and  peaked  that  it 
was  almost  deformed.  Her  skin  was  unhealthy, 
but  her  features  were  small  and  well  shaped, 
and  her  smile  was  sweet,  pathetic,  and  helpless. 
She  did  not  know  how  pitiful  she  looked,  not 
having  mind  enough  to  contrast  herself  with 
other  girls.  She  was  used  to  hardship,  to  dull 
pain,  and  she  seldom  felt  and  never  expressed 
vivid  emotions.  She  was  pleased  by  Andrew's 
kindness,  glad  when  he  asked  her  how  the  baby 
was,  but  not  very  pleased  or  very  glad.  Her 
side  ached,  and  she  had  no  faculty  for  a  pleas- 
ure that  would  overcome  the  sense  of  that  pain. 

There  was  no  joyousness  in  that  household, 
where  care,  anxiety,  and  ignorance  dominated 
every  mood.  Andrew's  heart,  capable  of  fiercer 
passions,  was  heavy  in  this  dull  atmosphere. 

15 


226  AND  JOE. 

He  ate  the  cakes  that  Annie's  tired  hands  had 
made  for  him,  and  watched  the  girl  furtively  as 
she  took  up  the  baby  and  fed  it  from  a  bottle. 
He  was  thinking,  "  How  shall  I  keep  Nell  from 
hearing  about  her?  " 

Theodora,  ignorant  of  the  new  factor  which 
Nell's  appearance  had  brought  into  what  she 
termed  the  "  Joe  problem,"  spent  the  next  day 
looking  for  a  place  suitable  for  the  boy.  She 
told  her  father  about  the  people,  and  he  com- 
mented a  little  sadly,  — 

"It  is  a  fact,  my  dear,  that  among  factory 
operatives  families  seldom  attain  to  assured  com- 
fort, unless  they  are  exceptionally  fortunate  in 
matters  which  they  cannot  themselves  control, 
such  as  birth,  death,  and  health,  or  unless  they 
are  so  exceptionally  gifted  with  prudence  and 
virtue  that  they  have  a  genius  for  poverty.  The 
ordinary  mill-hand  who  marries  another  ordi- 
nary mill  -  band,  who  has  numerous  children, 
with  frequent  doctor's  bills  to  pay,  —  excuse  me, 
Margaret !  —  and  who  often  loses  work  from 
one  cause  or  another,  struggles  against  odds 
which  are  beyond  the  powers  of  common  men 
and  women  to  overcome.  This  family  is  prob- 
ably made  of  miserable  stuff  morally,  but  one 
such  member  as  that  boy  would  prove  in  most 
operative  families  the  decisive  ounce  to  turn  the 
scale  of  fortune  against  them." 


AND  JOE.  227 

"  Then  we  get  more  than  our  share,  and  they 
get  less  than  theirs,  out  of  the  mill,"  said  The- 
odora warmly.  . 

"  It  would  seem  so,"  said  her  father;  "  but  it 
is  all  according  to  the  laws  of  trade." 

"  Oh,"  cried  she,  "  if  eternal  justice  is  any- 
where, it  must  be  everywhere !  I  do  not  know," 
she  continued,  "  that  one  has  the  right  to  use 
against  a  poor  man  the  full  brute  power  of 
wealth  any  more  than  he  has  to  use  against  a 
weak  man  the  full  brute  force  of  physical 
strength." 

"  Nor,"  said  Margaret,  "  do  I  believe  it  a  wise 
policy." 

*'  I  agree  with  you  in  my  heart,"  replied  Mr. 
Justice  ;  "  yet  look  at  history.  Everywhere 
the  weak  man  goes  to  the  wall.  Everywhere 
the  strong  man  steps  forward,  with  his  foot 
upon  his  feeble  brother's  corpse.  The  great 
races  flourish  and  civilization  grows  —  or  seems, 
at  least,  to  grow  —  because  through  unnum- 
bered throes  of  agony,  silent,  helpless,  unutter- 
ably pathetic,  the  weak  races  fall,  and  dying 
where  they  fall,  their  blood  enriches  the  soil 
from  which  our  glories  spring." 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  Theodora,  like  one  in  pain  ; 
"  it  cannot  be  that  it  is  better  for  the  world  that 
men  should  be  cruel  and  selfish  than  it  would  be 
for  them  to  be  kind  and  helpful." 


228  AND  JOE. 

"  But  think,"  responded  her  father ;  "  there 
seems  to  be  no  other  way  for  nations  to  ad- 
vance." 

"  Where  is  God,  then  ?  "  asked  his  daughter. 

"  Perhaps,"  Margaret's  quiet  voice  suggested, 
"  it  is  evolution  ;  and  I  am  not  sure  but  it  will 
prove  as  easy  to  find  God  in  evolution  as  in  Cal- 
vinism." 

"  Our  nation,"  said  Mr.  Justice,  "  is  built  on 
the  Indian's  grave ;  and  yet,  so  far  as  we  can 
judge,  we  are  a  people,  notwithstanding  all  our 
crimes,  better  worth  having  in  the  world  than 
the  Indian,  if  only  one  of  the  two  races  can  sur- 
vive." 

"  Yes,"  said  Margaret;  "but  we  should  have 
been  still  better  worth  having  in  the  world  if 
we  had  been  noble  enough  to  live  with  the  In- 
dian, and  civilize  instead  of  butchering  him." 

"  I  think  we  are  the  savages,"  sighed  Theo- 
dora. 

"  Then,"  replied  her  father,  "  if  savages  must 
fight,  I  don't  know  that  it  impugns  God's  moral 
intention  that  he  allows  the  nobler  people  to 
conquer ;  since,  after  a  time,  ashamed  of  its  own 
barbarity,  the  victorious  race  may  so  far  civilize 
itself  that  it  can  evolve  the  virtue  of  considera- 
tion for  the  weak,  too  fine  a  flower  of  civiliza- 
tion to  be  its  first  blossom." 

"  In  other  words,"  added  Margaret,  "  of  the 


AND  JOE.  229 

two  barbarians,  the  white  and  the  red,  victory 
is  granted  to  the  white,  because,  in  spite  of  his 
crimes,  he  is  likely  to  learn  to  care  for  the  In- 
dian sooner  than  the  Indian,  if  victorious,  would 
learn  to  care  for  him." 

"  But  the  factory,"  urged  Theodora.  "  We 
must  not  comfortably  forget  our  own  sins,  while 
discussing  the  nation's." 

"  It  is  much  the  same  thing,"  said  Mr.  Jus- 
tice. 

"  All  moral  questions  are  own  cousins,"  ob- 
served Margaret. 

"There  may  be  better  systems  than  ours," 
continued  Mr.  Justice  ;  "  but  no  manufacturer 
yet  dares  use  other  methods.  We  are  afraid  to 
risk  the  terrible  strain  of  commercial  crises  with 
a  new  policy.  And  we  are  ambitious ;  the 
greed  of  success  has  seized  our  souls.  It  is  not 
merely  wealth  that  we  want ;  we  desire  to  be 
greatly  successful  in  the  pursuit  we  have  chosen. 
That  passion  is  the  moral  bane  of  the  business 
man." 

Margaret  spoke  slowly :  "  Drink  causes  most 
of  the  pauperism  of  the  operatives." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Mr.  Justice  frankly  ;  "  but 
it  is  their  poverty  that  makes  them  drink." 

This  was  a  new  idea  to  Theodora,  and,  pon- 
dering on  it,  she  said  no  more.  She  wondered 
also  at  her  father.  Had  he  been  thinking  all 


230  AND  JOE. 

his  life  of  these  problems  which  now  vexed  her 
young  mind  for  the  first  time  ?  The  truth  was 
that  Mr.  Justice  had  a  sensitive  rather  than  a 
strong  moral  nature.  He  lacked  the  believing 
heart  necessary  to  combat  evil  persistently.  He 
saw  objections  to  any  proposed  social  remedy 
as  plainly  as  he  perceived  arguments  in  favor 
thereof.  Perhaps  his  mind  had  not  the  finer 
quality  which  could  compare  accurately,  and  see 
which  side  of  a  question  was  the  more  deserv- 
ing, when  both  sides  merited  great  considera- 
tion. Pained  and  disheartened  by  the  misery 
he  encountered  in  the  world,  and  not  sure  of  any 
cure,  he  had  sought  to  save  himself  from  suffer- 
ing by  avoiding  direct  contact  with  the  troubles 
of  the  poor.  He  prosecuted  his  business,  and 
endeavored  to  convince  himself  that,  as  he  could 
not  relieve  his  operatives  from  all  privation,  he 
was  not  responsible  for  any  of  their  misfortunes. 
He  sought  to  escape  self-condemnation  by  re- 
flecting that  it  would  not  be  well  for  any  people 
to  be  wholly  relieved  from  misfortune,  or  from 
the  direful  consequences  of  their  own  errors. 
He  did  not  allow  himself  sufficiently  to  consider 
the  difference  between  a  course  of  action  tend- 
ing to  reduce  a  class  to  dependency,  and  one 
which  should  stimulate  self-help,  while  giving 
encouragement,  assistance,  and  while  removing 
unnecessary  burdens.  Mr.  Justice's  ideals  were 


AND  JOE.  231 

high,  but  they  mocked  his  indolence  and  selfish 
ambition  from  afar.  He  had  not  even  tried  to 
reach  up  to  them,  but  through  all  the  years, 
undesired  convictions  settled  in  his  heart  and 
weighed  heavily  there. 

All  night  after  meeting  Nell,  and  all  the 
next  morning  at  his  work,  Andrew  Moore  was 
haunted  by  the  memory  of  a  fair,  scornful  face, 
and  by  the  fear  of  punishment  for  his  crime. 
He  realized  that  the  lightest  allusion  to  him  in 
Nell's  presence  might  lead  to  the  mention  of 
his  marriage  to  Annie,  and  at  that  thought  he 
trembled.  At  noon  he  took  his  way  toward 
Mrs.  Carey's  shop,  and  by  watching  and  fol- 
lowing, ascertained  that  Nell's  walk  to  her 
boarding-place  led  her  through  the  woods.  He 
scrambled  through  the  underbrush,  and  inter- 
cepted her.  She  greeted  him  rather  rudely  as 
he  approached.  He  talked  with  her  a  few  min- 
utes, and  became  convinced  that  thus  far  she 
had  told  no  one  of  their  relation,  and  had  heard 
nothing  of  Annie.  This  comforted  him  for  the 
moment,  but  when  he  returned  to  the  mill,  that 
afternoon,  his  terror  came  back.  He  felt  that 
he  must  decide  to  do  something  at  once.  That 
evening  he  met  Nell  again. 

"  I  've  told  you  over  'n'  over,"  she  said, 
"  that  I  did  n't  want  to  have  nothin'  to  do  with 
you." 


232  AND  JOE. 

"  But  I  can't  let  you  alone,"  said  Andrew ; 
"  and  I  won't,  neither." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  "  I  declare," 
said  she,  "  I  believe  you  are  soft  on  me  still. 
Thank  you,  but  I  have  n't  no  inclination  that 
way." 

She  went  by  him,  upon  this,  holding  her 
graceful  head  very  erect.  She  felt  pleased  and 
proud.  She  had  had  admiration  from  many 
men,  but  to  have  her  own  husband  violently 
in  love  with  her  was  an  experience  so  unlike 
what  seemed  to  befall  most  women  that  it 
elated  her  greatly,  and  dimmed  the  memory  of 
the  drunken  rage  in  which  he  had  beaten  her, 
two  years  before. 

That  evening,  Annie  sat  patiently  beside  the 
kitchen  fire,  rocking  her  baby  in  her  lap. 

"  I  wonder  why  Andrew  don't  come  home," 
said  Mrs.  Huckleberry. 

Joe  spoke  up,  with  his  mouth  full  of  baked 
potato :  — 

"  The  last  I  seen  of  him,  he  was  up  in  the 
woods,  gabbin'  with  that  new  gal  that  works  in 
Mis'  Carey's." 

Annie  said  not  a  word,  and  when  Andrew 
finally  came  she  only  followed  his  motions  with 
disquieted  eyes.  She  never  once  thought  of 
asking  him  anything  about  the  girl. 

The  next  forenoon,  Andrew  went  boldly  to 


AND  JOE.  233 

Mrs.  Carey's  store.  The  mistress  came  for- 
ward to  meet  him.  Nell  sat  in  the  rear  of  the 
room,  herself  half  hidden  by  a  curtain,  but  she 
saw  him  very  plainly.  All  night  his  desire 
to  see  her  face  again  had  been  greater  even 
than  his  fear  of  the  law  which  he  had  broken. 
Her  image  had  come  between  him  and  Annie 
when  he  had  tried  to  look  at  the  mother  of  his 
child.  Joe  had  refused  to  go  up  to  his  attic  to 
sleep,  and  then  had  had  a  fit  in  the  kitchen, 
waking  everybody  at  midnight.  The  baby  had 
cried,  and  Annie  had  toiled  over  it  for  hours. 
Andrew  had  helped  her  a  little,  but  most  of 
the  time  he  had  lain  still,  watching  her,  listen- 
ing to  the  screams  of  the  child,  to  Joe's  hideous 
noises,  to  the  chatter  and  cries  of  the  other 
children,  —  thinking  all  the  time  of  Nell.  He 
pitied  Annie  still,  but  he  had  begun  to  pity 
himself  more ;  and  he  had  also  begun  to  re- 
mind what  he  called  his  conscience,  that  it  was 
his  duty,  at  whatever  cost  to  this  slim  girl,  to 
return  to  his  first  marriage  vows. 

As  Andrew  talked  with  Mrs.  Carey,  Nell 
said  to  herself,  "  That  is  my  husband,  and 
there  he  stands  like  any  stranger !  " 

In  a  moment  Mrs.  Carey  called  out,  "  Nell, 
bring  me  a  chair  !  " 

"  There 's  one  there,"  said  Nell,  in  a  reluctant 
voice. 


234  AND  JOE. 

"  It 's  rickety,"  answered  the  shop-woman. 
"  I  don't  dare  trust  my  weight  to  it,  and  I  want 
to  reach  the  upper  shelf.  Come  yourself." 

Nell  came  out  from  behind  the  dark  curtain 
that  shut  off  the  back  part  of  the  shop.  She 
stood  still,  waiting  for  her  mistress  to  pass  out 
from  behind  t"he  counter.  A  light  from  above 
struck  her  auburn  hair,  and  turned  some  float- 
ing curly  rings  to  gold.  When  the  older  woman 
had  bustled  by  her,  Nell  came  slowly  down  the 
store,  looking  at  the  dark,  passionate  man  be- 
fore her  as  if  the  space  where  he  stood  were 
empty.  She  sprang  on  the  tottering  chair, 
reached  up  lightly,  and  took  from  the  shelf  a 
box.  Andrew's  senses  were  smitten  with  pain 
as  he  marked  her  strong,  graceful  motions.  She 
stepped  down,  put  the  box  on  the  counter, 
opened  it,  and  carelessly  displayed  its  contents. 
He  dared  not  meet  her  eyes,  and  bent  his 
face  downward.  His  head  was  handsome,  and 
Nell  suddenly  noticed  that  his  shoulders  were 
shapely.  Accidentally,  his  hand  touched  hers. 
He  started  violently.  She  looked  at  him  with 
cool  surprise,  and  their  eyes  met  in  one  long 
gaze.  Then  he  turned  his  glance  away  again. 
Instantly,  Nell's  mood  changed.  The  uncon- 
scious loyalty  of  her  nature  asserted  itself.  She 
felt  the  bond  so  hard  to  break,  though  it  is  not 
always  made  of  love  or  even  of  passion,  which 


AND  JOE.  235 

holds  a  woman  to  a  man  whose  wife  she  has 
once  been.  Her  lips  began  to  tremble. 

"  He  might  say  one  kind  word,"  she  thought. 

After  a  moment,  as  he  did  not  speak,  she 
turned  to  fly  from  him.  He  reached  across 
the  counter  and  held  her.  She  besought  him 
with  her  eyes. 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  breathed. 

"  No.  My  God,"  he  cried,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  I  love  you,  Nell,  better  'n  my  life !  Meet  me 
to-night  at  five  at  the  station,  'n'  we  '11  go  back 
to  Fall  River  together,  'n'  not  tell  nobody  here, 
but  we  '11  begin  again,  all  new,  there.  Bring 
what  money  you  have.  Don't  be  afraid  to 
trust  me.  I  '11  be  your  best  friend.  We  won't 
tell  nobody  here,  because  it  would  just  make 
talk,  if  folk  knew  we  'd  been  married  all  this 
time.  Will  you  come  ?  Nell,  you  must  come.'* 

"  I  '11  —  see,"  said  Nell  slowly,  and  Andrew 
detected  a  yielding  tone  in  her  voice. 

"  Well,  don't  say  nothin,' "  he  answered  ; 
"  only  come,  for  the  love  of  old  times,  an'  bet- 
ter times  than  you  ever  knew." 

Here  Mrs.  Carey  reappeared,  and  Andrew 
hurried  out  of  the  store.  His  head  was  dizzy, 
and  he  stumbled  over  Joe,  who  was  sitting  on 
the  steps.  Moore  gave  the  boy  a  savage  kick, 
and  Joe  raised  his  bleared  eyes,  and  angrily 
watched  his  brother-in-law  walk  away. 


236  AND  JOE. 

"  I  '11  fix  him,"  muttered  the  lad. 

Nell,  meanwhile,  stood  alone  in  the  shop,  for 
Mrs.  Carey  had  followed  Andrew  out.  The 
girl  felt  very  uncertain  what  to  do.  She  had 
never  loved  Andrew  very  much,  even  when 
first  married  to  him,  but  now  her  heart  yearned 
towards  him  somewhat.  Stronger  still  was  the 
impulse  of  loyalty.  Her  nature  was  more  true 
than  she  wanted  it  to  be.  She  had  wayward, 
rebellious  desires,  and  tried  to  follow  them, 
but  she  could  not  long  disregard  any  obliga- 
tion. She  did  not  understand  the  turmoil  in 
her  mind.  She  only  knew  that  Andrew,  as  his 
steps  died  away  in  the  distance,  seemed  draw- 
ing her  after  him. 

Joe  pushed  open  the  door,  and  shambled  in. 
He  stopped  before  Nell,  and  stared  coarsely  at 
her. 

"  Well,"  she  cried  at  last,  "  would  you  know 
me  again  in  a  crowd  ?  " 

"  Who  be  you  ?  "  said  Joe. 

"Who  be  I?     Whobeyow?" 

"  I  'm  Joe,"  said  he.  "  I  'm  Annie's  brother, 
'n'  you  'd  better  look  out  wot  you  do,  or  I  '11 
have  you  took  up.  I  'd  like  to  git  him  took 
up,"  he  added,  with  a  chuckle. 

"  Who 's  Annie  ?  "  asked  Nell. 

Joe  grinned  sarcastically.  "  As  ef  you  did  n't 
know !  "  he  said  disdainfully. 


AND  JOE.  237 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  an'  I  don't  care,  nei- 
ther," said  she,  turning  from  him. 

But  Joe  followed  her.  "Don't  you  know?  '* 
he  asked  earnestly. 

"No,  I  don't." 

He  studied  her  face.  "  Mebbe,"  he  said  at 
last,  "  he 's  playin'  a  game  on  you  !  I  seen  him 
an'  you  gabbin'  together  lots  o'  times.  Mebbe 
he  is  !  Will  you  help  me  pay  him  up  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  what  you  mean,"  resumed  Nell,  in 
a  steady  voice.  "  Who  is  Annie  ?  " 

"  She 's  my  sister,"  said  the  boy  slowly. 
"  She 's  his  wife." 

"  Whose  wife  ?  " 

"  His'n,  —  Andrew  Moore's." 

"You  lie!" 

"  No,  I  don't,"  said  Joe ;  but  as  he  spoke  he 
backed  towards  the  door. 

"  Stop ! "  cried  she.  "  Before  God,  I  did  n't 
know  nothin'  of  this."  Her  breast  heaved,  and 
the  words  came  hard  from  her  lips.  "  Tell  me, 
where  does  this  Annie  live  ?  " 

But  Joe  was  frightened  out  of  his  plan  of 
making  her  his  accomplice  in  some  scheme  of 
vengeance  upon  Andrew,  and  he  answered 
promptly,  "  I  shan't  tell  ye." 

"  Oh,  I  won't  hurt  her.  I  '11  —  be  a  friend 
to  her.  Has  she  been  married  long  ?  " 

"  None  o'  yer  business." 


238  AND  JOE. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is,"  panted  Nell.  "  Do  tell  me. 
Andrew  Moore  has  played  me  a  worse  trick  as 
ever  he  played  her." 

She  entreated,  she  stormed,  but  Joe  fled  be- 
fore her  passion,  and  told  her  no  more.  Left 
alone,  she  steadied  her  head  with  her  hands,  and 
sat  down  on  the  floor.  This,  then,  was  the  rea- 
son for  Andrew's  urgent  desire  to  keep  their 
former  relations  private.  "  He  has  a  wife  here," 
she  said  to  herself,  "  an'  he  wants  to  clear  out 
with  me,  'n'  not  let  her  know.  Then,"  she 
added  slowly,  "he  likes  me  best !  " 


HI. 

Annie  came  home  from  her  work  early  that 
noon.  She  was  ill,  and  told  her  mother  that 
she  had  fainted  in  the  mill.  She  sat  down, 
looking  very  white,  and  took  up  her  baby. 

"I  seen  Andrew  into  Mis'  Carey's,  talkin' 
with  that  gal  ag'in,  this  mornin',''  said  Joe,  leer- 
ing up  at  her  from  his  seat  on  the  floor.  "  Ef  I 
was  big  enough,  I  'd  lick  him,  —  pay  him  for 
some  o'  the  lickin's  he  's  gin  me.  She  said  she 
did  n't  know  nothin'  about  his  havin'  a  wife 
here.  Took  on  like  blazes  about  it." 

The  mother  plied  Joe  with  angry  questions, 
but  the  boy  rose  and  slouched  out  without  far- 
ther speech.  Annie  simply  said,  after  a  long 


AND  JOE.  239 

pause,  "  I  guess  Miss  Justice  ain't  goin'  to  do 
nothin'  about  takin'  Joe  away,  after  all." 

In  a  few  minutes  Andrew  came  in.  As  he 
entered  the  kitchen,  Annie's  pale  face  shone 
like  a  white  gleam  in  the  dark,  dingy  room,  and 
his  heart  contracted  with  pain  and  something 
like  tenderness.  He  sat  down  by  the  table,  and 
thought  how  unlucky  it  was  that  he  was  so 
"  soft-hearted."  He  could  not  look  forward  to 
possessing  Nell  without  seeing  the  shadow  of 
Annie's  suffering  fall  across  his  joy. 

Mrs.  Huckleberry  set  out  Andrew's  dinner 
sullenly,  and  he  ate  it  silently.  After  a  few 
minutes,  Annie  came  and  waited  on  him.  Once, 
as  she  passed  him,  she  laid  her  fingers  very 
lightly  on  his  shoulder.  He  bent  his  head  low 
over  his  plate. 

"  Set  down,"  said  the  mother  gruffly.  "  You 
're  not  fit  to  be  waitin'  on  him.  Sick  yersel'." 

Andrew  looked  up  as  Annie  staggered  with  a 
kettle  in  her  hands  which  she  had  lifted  from 
the  stove.  He  sprang  forward,  caught  her  in 
his  arms,  carried  her  into  their  room,  and  laid 
her  on  the  bed.  He  leaned  over  her,  and  there 
were  tears  in  his  eyes.  She  raised  her  hand 
feebly  to  touch  him.  He  turned  away.  "  Don't 
go  back  to  work  again  to-day,"  he  said,  and 
went  out  of  the  house,  meaning  never  to  enter 
it  again.  He  groaned  aloud  as  he  closed  the 


240  AND  JOE. 

door.  Just  then  he  saw  into  his  own  heart,  and 
knew  how  cruel  and  selfish  it  was.  But  in  a 
few  minutes  he  lifted  his  head,  squared  his 
shoulders,  and  tried  to  smile,  saying  to  him- 
self, — 

"  Now,  there  's  lots  of  fellers  would  n't  think 
nothin'  of  leavin'  a  girl  like  that.  I  ain't  half 
so  bad  as  them.  An'  if  Nell  'n'  mo  get  on 
pretty  well,  I  guess  I  can  send  Annie  some 
money  before  long,  an'  may  be  I  can  <jome  an' 
see  her  once  in  a  while." 

That  afternoon  Annie  sat  alone  in  the  kitchen, 
with  the  baby  on  her  lap.  Her  mother  had 
gone  to  do  a  neighbor's  washing.  The  girl  felt 
very  ill,  and  her  heart  was  even  heavier  than 
usual.  She  sang  softly  to  the  baby,  and  the 
song  sounded  like  a  long,  low  moan.  She  heard 
steps  on  the  frozen  ground  outside,  and  looked 
up  to  see  a  face  at  the  window.  It  vanished, 
and  an  instant  later  the  door  opened  ;  a  woman 
came  in  with  a  firm  step,  and  walked  across  the 
room  to  Annie. 

The  girl  recognized  her  with  a  sinking  heart ; 
it  was  she  whom  Joe  had  seen  with  Andrew. 
Silently  the  two  looked  at  each  other.  A  faint 
angry  color  rose  in  Annie's  cheek,  but  Nell's 
face  did  not  change,  till  she  glanced  down  at  the 
baby,  when  her  eyes  grew  dark  with  a  meaning 
Annie  could  never  have  fathomed. 


AND  JOE.  241 

"  That  is  my  husband's  child,"  Nell  thought, 
"and  it  is  not  mine."  Aloud,  she  said,  "That 
is  your  baby  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Annie;  still  Nell  stood  and 
looked  at  it.  "  What  do  you  want?"  faltered 
the  mother,  finally. 

Nell  started,  as  from  a  dream,  and  then 
laughed  slightly,  but  unquietly.  "  I  wanted  to 
see  it  and  you,"  she  said.  "  Don't  you  never 
worry  for  fear  o'  my  doin'  you  any  harm.  I 
never  knew  Andrew  was  married  —  to  you,  till 
that  boy  —  Huckleberry  Joe,  they  call  him  — 
told  me  so  to-day.  You  see,  I  used  to  know 
Andrew,  years  ago,  when  we  was  young  —  an' 
I  —  was  silly.  That 's  all.  But  I  thought  may 
be  folks  might  be  tellin'  you  stories  as  would 
trouble  you.  Don't  listen  to  notbin'  of  the  sort. 
I  'm  goin'  away  to-night.  If  Andrew  ever  treats 
you  bad,  you  send  for  me.  Mis'  Carey  '11  know 
where  I  am.  She 's  my  cousin.  Good-by." 
Annie,  bewildered,  stared  at  her  visitor.  Nell 
paused,  and  then  said,  "  When  I  'm  clean  gone, 
Andrew  will  never  think  o'  me  again.  I  know 
him.  So  that  '11  be  all  right.  I  'd  like  to  take 
the  baby  a  minute." 

She  stooped,  lifted  the  child  in  strong,  tender 
arms,  carried  it  to  the  window,  gazed  wistfully 
at  its  tiny  face,  touched  her  lips  lightly  to  the 
puny  cheek,  then  brought  it  back  to  the  young 

16 


242  AND  JOE. 

mother,  smiled  a  rare,  sweet  smile,  and  passed 
out  into  the  frosty  air. 

"  Oh,"  moaned  Annie,  "  how  pretty  she  is !  " 

rv. 

Andrew  Moore  left  the  station,  where  he  had 
waited  in  vain  for  Nell,  and  took  the  path 
through  the  woods  to  Mrs.  Carey's  house.  The 
sun  was  sinking  in  the  west,  and  showed  like  a 
red  fire  behind  the  pines.  As  he  turned  a  curve 
in  the  path,  he  saw  a  woman  walking  in  the 
rich  light,  a  little  distance  before  him.  He 
ran  till  he  reached  her. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  come  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  I  had  other  business.  I  went  to  see  your 
other  wife." 

"  Oh !  "  he  groaned. 

Nell  faced  him  defiantly.  "  Yes,"  she  said. 
"  An'  I  told  her  as  you  an'  I  was  old  acquaint- 
ances, an'  nothin'  more;  an'  now  I  tell  you 
that  I  'm  goin'  away  from  here,  —  but  not 
with  you.  So  my  advice  to  you  is  to  make  it 
up  with  Annie,  and  be  good  to  her." 

"Annie  is  no  wife  of  mine,"  he  said  dog- 
gedly, "  and  you  are.  If  you  were  a  decent 
woman,  you  'd  go  with  me." 

Nell's  eyes  blazed.  "Jest  stop  that,"  she 
said,  in  a  trembling  voice.  "  I  won't  be  in- 


AND  JOE.  248 

suited.  I  married  you  fair  an'  square  ;  so  did 
she.  What  you  've  done  has  set  me  free,  but 
has  bound  you  to  her.  I  '11  get  a  bill,  an'  you 
can  marry  her  over  again,  if  you  've  got  scru- 
ples about  the  first  time." 

The  man  begged  and  entreated.  He  threw 
himself  upon  the  ground  at  her  feet.  He 
wound  his  arms  about  her  knees  and  pulled  her 
down  towards  him. 

"  I  could  n't !  "  she  cried,  struggling.  Then 
she  looked  into  his  upturned  face.  "  Since  I 
saw  that  girl's  baby,"  she  said,  "  I  could  n't 
like  you  if  I  tried ;  and  I  would  n't  live  with 
you  if  I  did  like  you." 

His  eyes  fell,  his  head  drooped,  but  still  he 
clung  to  her,  and  as  she  tried  to  escape  she 
dragged  him  along  the  frosty  ground,  while  the 
red  sun  sank  out  of  sight  between  the  forest 
stems,  and  a  darkness  fell  upon  the  two.  He 
lifted  up  his  face  once  more  to  hers,  but  her 
heart  only  grew  still  and  cold  at  the  sight. 
Afterward,  after  many  days,  alone  in  her  cham- 
ber, she  often  cried  and  shuddered,  and  her 
heart  ached,  remembering  that  dark,  desperate 
face,  with  the  unearthly  glow  upon  it  from  the 
wintry  twilight  heaven  above. 

"  It 's  hell,"  he  cried,  "  you  're  leavin'  me  to ! 
Don't  you  see  what  that  family  is  ?  They  '11 
keep  me  poor  an'  wretched  all  my  life.  It's 


244  AND  JOE. 

hell  with  them.     It 's  hell  without  you.     And 
I  love  you,  Nell,  — oh,  my  God,  how  I  love 

you!" 

"  Make  heaven  out  of  your  hell,"  she  said. 
"I  must." 

He  could  not  comprehend  her,  but  his  arms 
fell  to  the  ground.  He  no  longer  dared  touch 
her.  She  stood  free,  but  now  that  she  was  free 
she  felt  unable  to  leave  him  thus. 

"Why  did  you  marry  her  ?  "  she  asked  as  he 
crouched  at  her  feet. 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  answer  ;  then  he 
said,  "  I  was  mad  with  you,  an'  "  —  he  hesi- 
tated again  —  "  when  old  Huckleberry  teased 
me  to  marry  her  I  pitied  her.  I  was  soft- 
hearted. I  could  n't  leave  a  girl,  like  other 
fellers  do.  It  was  all  her  fault." 

"  Now,"  said  Nell,  "  you  've  said  the  meanest 
thing  a  man  can  say,  an'  what  a  man  always 
does  say  when  he  's  ruined  a  girl.  Just  you 
mind  :  if  you  treat  her  badly,  I  '11  have  you  ar- 
rested for  bigamy." 

Her  indignation  restored  her  strength,  and 
she  left  him,  not  once  looking  back  to  see  him, 
lying  there  on  the  earth. 

Annie's  husband  went  back  to  her  that  even- 
ing, but  he  found  no  peace  ,  for  his  alarmed 
soul.  He  reflected  that  he  was  entirely  in 
Nell's  power,  and  that  at  any  moment,  should 


AND  JOE.  245 

she  be  seized  with  revengeful  impulse,  she 
could  cause  his  arrest.  He  knew  that  she  had 
left  the  village  on  the  evening  of  that  fateful 
day,  but  he  knew  not  whither  she  had  gone. 
Sometimes  he  thought  he  would  seek  her  out, 
and  try  once  more  to  win  her ;  but  he  was 
afraid  to  face  again  those  wrathful,  accusing 
eyes.  His  present  life  grew  more  irksome  to 
him.  He  ceased  to  feel  any  tenderness  for 
Annie,  and  the  child  irritated  him.  His  con- 
science was  drowned  in  a  flood  of  fear  and  self- 
pity.  After  a  day  or  two  of  this  sort  of  tor- 
ment, he  made  up  his  mind  to  leave  the  place, 
and  "  tramp  "  his  way  to  some  distant  part  of 
the  country,  out  of  the  reach  of  Nell's  possible 
vengeance.  So  there  came  a  night  when  Annie 
waited  in  vain  for  the  father  of  her  child.  The 
next  forenoon  the  neighbors  told  the  young 
mother  that  during  the  evening  while  she  had 
been  watching  for  him,  he  was  seen  to  leave 
the  village  by  the  train. 

That  afternoon,  Theodora  Justice  stood  at 
the  door  of  the  basement  where  Joe's  family 
lived.  She  had  found  a  farmer  who,  for  a  con- 
sideration, which  in  her  new-born  zeal  she  in- 
tended secretly  to  furnish,  had  promised  to  take 
Joe  and  try  to  teach  him  farm  work. 

Miss  Justice  looked  at  the  row  of  dark,  damp 
tenements,  and  her  gray  eyes  grew  thoughtful. 


246  ^ND  JOE. 

She  entered  the  dingy,  ill-odorous  kitchen,  and 
her  heart  felt  heavy.  The  women  within  were 
slightly  clad.  Her  own  garments  were  warm 
and  rich.  Was  she  clothed  from  the  rents 
paid  for  these  wretched  rooms  ? 

She  told  her  errand,  and  received  in  return 
an  account  of  all  the  occurrences  of  the  past 
few  days. 

"  Annie  won't  believe,"  said  the  mother, 
"  that  that  girl  has  gone  off  with  Andrew,  but 
I  know  she  has." 

"Had  you  had  trouble  with  your  husband 
before  ? "  asked  Miss  Justice. 

"  No,  miss,  we  never  had  no  trouble." 

"  He  was  a  good  husband,  then  ?  " 

The   mother  made  answer,  "  Oh,  he  wan'f* 
none  of  the  best,  nor  none  of  the  worst." 

Miss  Justice  could  not  understand  why  these 
women  showed  so  little  emotion  as  they  talked 
of  these  things.  Their  voices  were  simply 
dreary  and  hopeless,  though  Annie's  eyes  were 
red  from  weeping. 

"  I  '11  have  to  do  something  with  my  baby," 
said  the  deserted  girl.  "  I  can't  take  care  of 
it,  an'  work  in  the  mill ;  an'  if  I  could  put  it 
somewheres,  mother  could  go  out  washin'  a 
good  deal." 

"  If  Joe  goes,"  said  the  elder  woman,  "  we 
could  get  on  pretty  well,  if  it  wan't  for  the 
baby." 


AND  JOE.  247 

"  But  how  can  you  bear  to  send  your  baby 
away  ?  "  cried  Theodora. 

"  Well,"  said  Annie,  "it  would  be  hard,  for 
I  think  it  is  getting  real  cunning.  If  I  'd 
known  how  things  was  to  be,  I  'd  ha'  tried  to 
send  it  off  when  it  was  first  born.  Then  I 
should  n't  ha'  cared." 

She  bent  over  the  child  a  little  wistfully. 
When  she  raised  her  eyes,  she  met  Theodora's 
puzzled,  compassionate  glance.  So  these  two 
gazed  at  each  other,  —  both  women,  both  crea- 
tures who  had  suffered,  both  daughters  of  the 
factory  ;  but  how  differently  had  the  factory 
dealt  with  them  ! 

Theodora    put   out   her    hand,    and    lightly 

<r  touched  Annie's  shoulder.     "  My  poor  child," 

she  said,  "  stay  at  home  for  a  few  days  and 

rest,  and  take  care  of  the  baby,  and  we  will 

see  what  can  be  done  for  you." 

"  I  have  to  stay  at  home,"  answered  Annie, 
simply.  "I  'm  so  sick,  I  can't  work  now,  but 
I  '11  be  better  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  mother,  "  Annie  ain't  fit 
to  work.  She  's  been  to  the  mill  many  a 
mornin'  when  she  was  too  sick  to  hold  up  her 
head ;  but  poor  folks  can't  stop  to  mind  such 
things." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Theodora. 


248  AND  JOE. 

"I  have  a  pain  in  my  side,"  said  Annie. 
"  It  's  standin'  so  much  does  it." 

"  Do  you  stand  all  the  time  you  work  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  no  time  to  sit  ?  " 

"  Not  much  ;  an'  we  hain't  no  chairs,  an'  the 
overseer  won't  let  us  sit  on  the  floor." 

"  You  could  sit  down,  now  and  then,  if  you 
had  chairs  ?  " 

"  Yes.  There  used  to  be  chairs,  but  they  is 
all  broke." 

Theodora  drew  a  deep  breath.  She  was  sure 
that  it  was  only  through  negligence  that  new 
chairs  had  not  been  provided,  but  this  cer- 
tainty, while  it  held  the  factory  managers  par- 
tially excused,  did  not  quite  soothe  an  aching 
feeling  in  her  heart,  since  this  young  mother, 
whose  rest  was  broken  all  night,  must  suffer  all 
day  from  such  oversight. 

"  Well,"  thought  the  lady,  "  I  don't  know 
but  it  is  worth  while  to  live  just  to  remedy  such 
neglect." 

She  left  the  girl  sorrowfully,  and  went 
straight  to  Mrs.  Carey,  to  learn  what  she  could 
about  Andrew  and  Nell.  Mrs.  Carey,  although 
her  cousin,  had  known  nothing  about  Nell  till 
she  came  to  the  village,  a  few  weeks  previously. 
She  did  not  then  even  know  that  the  girl  had 
been  married,  and  nothing  had  roused  her  sus- 


AND  JOE.  249 

picion,  since  Nell's  maiden  name  had  also  been 
Moore.  After  her  final  interview  with  Andrew 
the  young  wife  had  confided  her  story  to  Mrs. 
Carey,  and  charged  her  to  watch  what  hap- 
pened to  Annie,  but  on  no  account  to  reveal 
to  any  one  the  fact  of  her  own  marriage.  Con- 
sequently, when  Miss  Justice  questioned  the 
milliner,  all  she  received  in  reply  was  Mrs. 
Carey's  assertion  that  Nell  was  not  with  An- 
drew, and  that  she  did  not  know  where  he  was. 
Theodora  was  not  wholly  inclined  to  believe 
her  statements,  especially  as  the  woman  refused 
to  tell  where  Nell  had  gone.  Such  clumsy 
manoeuvres  and  palpable  mysteries  would  prob- 
ably soon  have  resulted  of  themselves  in  a 
complete  enlightenment  of  the  whole  affair,  had 
not  a  higher  power  taken  the  matter  into  its 
own  hands,  and  arranged  all  things  according 
to  some  deeper  sense  of  fitness. 

That  very  evening  Margaret  came  to  Miss 
Justice.  "  I  have  been,"  she  said,  "  to  see 
Annie  Moore.  She  is  very  ill,  and  needs  a  com- 
petent nurse." 

"  Hire  one,  and  I  will  pay  her,"  said  Theo- 
dora, —  who  had  no  notion  of  showing  herself 
unready  to  meet  any  claim  of  simple  charity, 
however  bewildered  and  halting  she  might  be 
in  regard  to  the  various  social  theories  which 
were  dimly  revealing  themselves  to  her  mind. 


250  -AND  JOE. 

Indeed  it  was  a  relief  to  learn  of  such  a  clear 
and  evident  duty  which  she  might  perform. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Justice, 
looking  up  from  the  Tribune. 

Margaret  briefly  stated  the  case.  "  In  her 
exhausted  condition,"  said  she,  "  it  is  a  serious 
matter.  She  has  worked  when  she  should  have 
been  in  bed.  I  doubt  if  she  lives  through  the 
night." 

Theodora  drew  a  long  sobbing  breath.  Mr. 
Justice  ordered  out  the  coachman,  sent  for  med- 
icines, nurse,  everything  that  could  be  needed, 
and  himself  walked  with  Margaret  and  Theo- 
dora down  to  the  house  where  the  sick  girl 
lived.  He  paused  at  the  door,  while  the  women 
went  in. 

"  These  tenements  are  abominable,"  he 
thought.  "  It 's  a  dozen  years  since  I  have  been 
in  this  part  of  the  village  and  seen  them.  The- 
odora shall  have  her  way,  and  shut  them  up." 

In  a  moment  his  daughter  came  out  to  him. 
She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  looked 
in  his  handsome  eyes,  so  like  her  own. 

"  Father,"  said  she,  "  I  shall  stay  here  to- 
night." 

"  Very  well,"  he  answered,  kissing  her. 

Theodora  was  useful  that  night,  for  the  nurse 
for  whom  they  sent  could  not  come,  and  she, 
under  Margaret's  directions,  with  the  mother's 


AND  JOE.  251 

assistance,  took  charge  of  Annie.  Mr.  Justice 
returned  at  midnight,  to  see  if  he  could  be  of 
any  service.  His  servants  came  and  went  all 
night  on  errands.  Margaret  had  another  pa- 
tient in  a  critical  condition,  and  \vas  forced  to 
be  away  part  of  the  time,  but  no  braver  battle 
with  death  was  fought  that  night  over  the  couch 
of  any  lady  in  the  land  than  the  struggle  to 
save  this  poor  Annie,  who  had  been  so  little 
heeded  till  she  lay  dying. 

It  was  a  strange  scene,  that  dimly  lighted, 
squalid  room,  with  the  white  face  upon  the  pil- 
low, and  the  pale,  lovely  lady  sitting  by  the 
bed.  Old  Huckleberry  roamed  restlessly  in  and 
out,  and  looked  at  his  step-daughter's  quiet  face. 
The  mother,  when  otherwise  unoccupied,  sat  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed  and  tended  Annie's  baby. 
The  small  children  were  asleep  on  the  kitchen 
floor,  but  Joe  crouched  in  a  corner  of  Annie's 
room,  and  watched  his  sister  with  a  look  of  only 
half-human  suffering  in  his  eyes.  Little  as  An- 
nie had  cared  for  him,  she  had  always  been  gen- 
tle to  him,  and  he  felt  something  like  affection 
and  sorrow  now,  and  was  stupefied  by  a  sensa- 
tion of  so  high  an  order. 

Although  much  of  the  time  Annie  required 
attention,  there  were  long  quiet  intervals,  when 
Theodora  had  nothing  to  do  but  think  of  these 
factory  people,  who  seemed  to  have  some  claim 


252  AND  JOE. 

upon  her,  which  hitherto  she  had  not  recog- 
nized. Her  heart  began  to  go  out  to  them,  just 
because  many  of  them  were  sick  and  sorry,  and 
needed  her.  She  felt  that  it  would  not  be  hard 
to  labor  for  them,  because  she  would  love  them. 
Once,  when  Annie  moaned,  Theodora  bent  over 
her,  with  lips  that  trembled  a  little. 

"  Poor  baby,"  murmured  the  dying  girl. 

"  Don't  be  troubled,"  said  Theodora.  "  I  will 
see  that  it  is  well  taken  care  of." 

They  waked  Annie's  little  brothers,  who 
came  into  the  room,  half  asleep,  and  climbed  on 
the  bed  to  kiss  their  sister.  They  laid  her  ba- 
by's silent  mouth  to  hers.  Huckleberry  wiped 
his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  and  went  for 
the  priest.  The  room  was  hushed.  The  mother 
knelt  beside  her  daughter.  A  woman  came 
from  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  and,  kneeling, 
with  a  candle  in  her  hand,  read  prayers  in  a 
mumbling  voice.  Annie  stirred  uneasily,  and 
asked,  "  Where  's  Joe  ?  " 

Theodora  repeated  the  faint  whisper  aloud, 
and  the  boy  started  from  a  light  slumber,  and 
came  to  the  bed. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Annie.  "  You  never  meant 
no  harm  in  anything,  I  know." 

Joe  slunk  back,  and  sobbed  in  his  corner  on 
the  floor.  Annie  never  spoke  again.  Through 
it  all  she  had  not  mentioned  Andrew;  but  when 


AND  JOE.  253 

she  lay  dead  in  the  morning  light,  her  little 
face,  scarce  whiter  than  in  life,  was  still  sad. 

Theodora  took  the  baby  home  to  keep  until 
she  could  find  a  suitable  person  to  care  for  it. 
It  was  a  puny  creature,  and  when  Margaret 
came  to  see  it  she  said  it  was  so  feeble,  and  had 
been  so  drugged  by  its  ignorant  grandmother, 
that  she  doubted  whether  it  could  live.  Theo- 
dora remembered  then  that  the  old  woman  had 
taken  the  baby  into  her  own  room  a  little  while 
before  Annie  died,  because  of  its  crying,  and 
that  after  she  brought  it  back  it  had  slept  con- 
stantly. Full  of  unnecessary  remorse  lest  she, 
by  her  inattention,  had  been  partly  to  blame, 
Miss  Justice  spent  most  of  the  day,  after  her 
night-watch,  tending  the  child.  The  little  life, 
however,  flickered  and  went  out,  and  late  that 
afternoon  the  tiny  body  was  laid  beside  the 
mother's.  Living,  she  had  not  been  a  beautiful 
child,  but  in  death  she  was  lovely  as  a  little  an- 
gel carven  in  marble,  —  white,  but  blue-veined 
under  the  closed  eyes.  Theodora  placed  the 
fair  head  on  Annie's  arm,  and  as  she  looked  at 
these  two,  lying  peacefully  together,  her  heart 
swelled  within  her,  and  she  turned  away  quickly 
to  hide  her  tears. 

As  she  left  the  house,  a  woman  stopped  her. 

"  You  're  Miss  Justice  ?  "  asked  the  stranger. 

«  Yes." 


254  AND  JOE. 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  I  'm  Nell  Moore." 

"  Oh  !     Where  is  Andrew  ?  " 

"  I  dunno,"  said  Nell. 

"You  don't?" 

"  No.  Oh,  you  need  n't  think  he  went  off 
with  me.  No,  ma'am!  I'm  done  with  him. 
I  married  him  fair  enough." 

"  Married  him  !  "  cried  Theodora. 

"  Yes,"  said  Nell.  "  It  can't  do  her  no  harm 
to  tell  now.  I  meant  to  see  you  an'  tell  you, 
when  I  heard  to-day  how  kind  you  'd  been  to 
her,  for  I  wanted  to  show  you  I  was  an  honest 
woman,  fit  to  take  care  of  a  child.  So  I  brought 
my  certificate,"  and  Nell  calmly  produced  the 
proof  of  her  marriage,  which  Theodora  scanned 
with  astonished  eyes.  "  We  quarreled,"  went 
on  Nell,  "  an'  separated,  an'  he  come  here ;  an' 
he  made  believe  marry  that  girl,  —  but  she 
thought  it  was  all  right;  an'  I  didn't  know 
nothin'  about  her,  an'  when  I  found  out  it 
turned  me  against  him  more  'n  all  he  'd  done  to 
me ;  an'  I  pitied  her,  an'  I  could  n't  see  as  I 
could  do  anybody  no  good  except  by  clearin' 
out,  an'  so  I  went.  I  've  been  stayin'  to  Bor- 
dentown,  with  Mis'  Carey's  sister;  an'  I  heard 
he  had  left  her,  an'  that  she  was  dead,  poor 
thing,  an'  so  I  come  right  over  this  afternoon, 
an'  thought  I  'd  speak  to  you  about  it." 

"  You  and  Andrew  did  not  go  away  together ! " 


AND  JOE.  255 

"Not  much,"  said  Nell  frankly.  "An'  I'm 
goin'  to  get  a  bill  from  him.  I  won't  be  both- 
ered with  him  no  longer.  What  I  wanted  to 
see  you  about  was  —  that  baby.  There  's  no- 
body wants  it,  I  s'pose,  an'  I  know  Andrew 
well  enough  to  know  he  won't  worry  himself 
about  it.  So  if  you  can  manage  that  I  can  have 
it,  an'  no  fuss  nor  talk  made,  I  'd  take  the  best 
of  care  of  it.  I  can  earn  enough  to  support  it, 
an'  I  'd  be  much  obliged  to  you." 

Theodora  stood  amazed.  "  You  would  take 
that  baby  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Nell.  "  I  'm  fond  of  children, 
an'  I  saw  this  one  once,  and  took  a  fancy  to  it." 
She  paused,  grew  red,  and  then  added  hurriedly, 
"  It  might  ha'  been  mine,  you  know." 

Theodora  choked,  as  she  said  in  a  low  tone, 
"  The  poor  little  baby  is  gone  too,  and  will  be 
buried  with  the  mother  to-morrow." 

Nell  started.  "  Then  Andrew  is  clear  of  all 
that,"  she  said,  "  and  of  me  too.  He  can  begin 
business  all  over  again."  She  laughed  a  little 
bitterly,  as  though  some  faint  self-consciousness 
had  come  to  her,  which  made  her  feel,  in  spite 
of  all  her  outward  show  of  decision,  that  it 
would  not  be  easy  for  her  to  break  through  the 
meshes  of  the  moral  net  in  which  her  life  was 
held.  She  might  protest  she  would  do  so,  but 
there  was  that  in  her  nature  which  made  it  im- 


256  AND  JOE, 

possible  for  her,  like  him,  to  "  begin  all  over 
again."  In  a  moment  more,  she  said,  "Well, 
I  'm  sorry  about  the  baby.  It  was  a  blessing 
for  Annie  to  die.  As  for  me,  I  've  got  to  make 
the  best  I  can  of  living  on." 

She  turned  to  go,  but  Theodora  touched  her. 

"  Nell,"  said  she,  "  come  and  see  me  some- 
times. Let  me  be  your  friend.  Don't  go  like 
that.  I  've  known  trouble,  too." 

At  the  simple  words,  Nell's  eyes  filled  with 
sudden  tears. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  I  '11  come  to  you 
once  in  a  while,  then.  Good-by." 

Theodora  saw  that  it  would  be  no  kindness 
to  detain  her,  and  stood  still  watching  the  lithe, 
handsome  figure,  as  it  moved  away,  till  the 
gathering  gloom  of  the  winter  evening  wrapped 
it  round  and  shrouded  it  from  view.  Then  she 
turned  her  steps  homeward,  saying  to  that  very 
tired  self  of  hers,  "  She  is  beyond  my  help,  and 
only  Joe  is  left  to  me." 


BRIDGET'S   STORY. 


WELL,  miss,  you  see  the  trouble  is,  Ellen 
gets  a  bit  religious  now  an'  then,  an'  spends 
more  time  prayin'  than  may  be  the  Lord  re- 
quires of  a  woman  as  'as  a  big  family  to  see  to. 
She  's  a  nice  'oman  tho',  an'  'as  a  good  'ead  to 
'er,  steadier  nor  'er  'usband's.  'E  's  stylish-like, 
an'  'e  'd  be  pleased  if  she  'd  go  with  finer  sort  o' 
company  nor  she  do.  She  just  laughs  at  'im, 
an'  says,  "  Oh,  bah,  John,  you  '11  never  catch 
me  a-runnin'  after  my  betters.  Them  as  was 
good  enough  for  us  when  we  was  yoong  is  good 
enough  now  we  is  old." 

"  'E  'd  like  me,"  says  she,  "  to  be  dressed  in 
satin  from  Monday  to  Saturday,  let  alone  Sun- 
day ;  an'  'ow  would  the  washin'  an'  the  bakin* 
fare  then  ?  " 

I  think  mysel'  Ellen  had  the  rights  of  it. 
She  's  just  a  common,  nice  body,  an'  what  'ould 
be  the  use  o'  'er  trickin'  'ersel'  out  like  a  gran' 
leddy  ?  It 's  only  people  in  this  country  as  try 

17 


258  BRIDGETS  STORY. 

to  make  themsel's  look  yoong,  an'  finer  nor 
their  condition.  I  think  it 's  ridic'lous  for  owld 
women  to  fix  themsel's  out  like  yoong  wenches. 
I  like  to  see  the  quality  dress  up,  but  it 's  not 
allays  the  gran'est  as  go  the  gayest.  I  remem- 
ber, in  England,  the  first  time  the  Queen  coom 
to  Chatsworth  after  she  was  married.  The 
Duke  'ad  an  eye  on  the  Queen  when  she  was 
yoong,  an'  she  coom  there ;  an'  for  five  or  six 
weeks  before,  all  the  gentry  was  givin'  the  owld 
women  round  about  new  petticoats  an'  new 
shoes,  so  's  they  should  look  nice  for  the  Queen 
to  see.  I  'ad  a  sister  in  service  at  Chatsworth, , 
an'  so  we  went  over  there  from  where  we  lived 
in  Lancashire.  I  'm  Irish  born,  you  know,  but 
we  'd  lived  in  Lancashire  since  I  wur  a  little 

4 

child,  an'  folks  say  as  I  spake  nayther  like  the 
Irish  nor  the  English.  I  'm  just  'alf  an'  'alf,  a 
kind  of  a  mixed  creatur'  at  best.  I  know  the 
Lancashire  di-log,  but  I  don't  spake  it  often ; 
my  father  never  liked  to  hear  it  in  the  'ouse, 
for  he  wur  an  educated  man.  Well,  we  took  a 
spring  cart  an'  drove  to  Chatsworth,  the  night 
before  the  Queen  coom,  an'  we  lodged  in  a  pub- 
lic 'ouse,  the  whole  on  us  in  one  room,  all  but 
my  father,  as  'ad  a  friend  in  the  town,  an  owld 
man,  who  took  'irn  'ome  to  'is  'ouse. 

The  next  day  we  went  to  the  park,  an'  they 
ranged   us   along   to   see   the   sight,  with  the 


BRIDGETS  STORY.  259 

smaller  children  in  front.  An'  when  the  Queen 
coom,  why,  she  'ad  on  just  a  black  silk  gown, 
•with  never  a  flounce  nor  a  tuck  on  it,  —  not  so 
much  as  a  tuck.  She  wore  mud  boots,  too, 
laeed  up  at  the  side,  an'  'er  'air  brought  down 
on  'er  forehead,  an'  then  brushed  back  plain,  an' 
twisted  behind  'er  'ead  ;  not  a  fashionable  knob, 
nayther,  —  nothing  but  a  little  twist.  She  coom 
along,  an'  behind  was  the  nurse  with  the  Queen's 
child,  carryin'  it  out  so  in  'er  arms ;  an'  the 
Queen  spoke  to  the  woman,  an'  she  coom  close 
to  where  we  was  stan'in',  so 's  I  put  out  my  'and 
an'  touched  the  child's  dress,  as  was  long,  an' 
soft,  an'  white.  She  'eld  it  down  so  's  we  could 
all  see  it,  an'  then  another  maid  took  it  an'  car- 
ried it  off  to  show  to  the  people  in  another  part 
o'  the  park. 

Then  two  men  took  the  gran'  cushions  out 
o'  the  Queen's  carriage,  an'  lifted  all  the  little 
lads  an'  wenches  into  the  carriage.  Eh,  but 
they  throwed  themsel's  back  an'  sat  down,  afore 
they  were  lifted  out  the  other  side.  They  went 
streamin'  in  an'  out,  an'  I  was  among  'em.  I 
have  sat  in  the  Queen's  carriage  ! 

Aw  well,  —  it 's  a  long  road  from  the  Queen 
at  Chatsworth  to  Ellen  McKiernan  an'  'er  man 
up  'ere,  but  now  my  lines  are  cast  amongst  such 
as  the  McKiernans. 

Mr.  McKiernan  is  a  bit  yoonger  nor  she,  an' 


260  BRIDGET'S  STORY. 

'e's  like  a  man  yoonger  nor  'e  is,  an'  that,  I 
think,  'elps  to  make  a  little  trouble  between 
'em,  off  an'  on.  Then  Tom,  the  eldest  boy,  is 
'is  father's  idol ;  but  when  the  lad  took  to  bad 
ways,  drinkin',  idlin'  nights,  an'  gamblin',  Ellen 
did  not  like  it,  an'  fussed  about  it,  while  the  fa- 
ther, as  ought  to  ha'  known  better,  said,  — 

"  Whisht,  let  the  lad  alone.  Yoong  men 
must  'ave  their  fling.  I  was  just  like  'im  at  'is 
age." 

"  The  more  shame  to  you  !  "  cried  Ellen,  "  for 
tellin'  on  it  afore  the  childer,  an'  spakiu'  light 
o'  the  laws  of  God  V  man." 

So  she  turned  to  Tom,  an'  says  she,  "  Tom,  I 
worked  in  the  mill  day-times,  an'  I  worked  in 
the  'ouse  nights,  when  I  was  the  mother  of  seven 
small  childer ;  an'  you,  as  'as  nothin'  but  a  man's 
part  to  do  in  this  world,  'ill  never  know  'ow  'ard 
a  woman's  lot  can  be.  I  never  shirked  my 
work,  for  I  wanted  to  give  you  schooling  an' 
'ave  you  larn  a  good  trade.  I  kept  you  at 
school  till  you  was  fourteen,  when  all  your 
mates  went  in  the  mill  at  twelve  year  old,  an' 
yoonger ;  an'  now  you  're  twenty,  you  've  larned 
the  machinist's  trade,  you  can  do  for  yersel',  an' 
I  won't  put  up  with  your  coomin'  'ome  late 
nights,  makin'  a  row,  bringin'  drink  and  bad 
company  in  the  'ouse,  an'  tachin  bad  ways  to 
your  brothers  an'  sisters.  If  you  cannot  cooin 


BRIDGETS  STORY.  261 

peaceable,  an'  in  due  season,  you  must  go  some- 
wheres  else  to  board." 

She  spoke  up  pretty  fierce,  but  she  'ad  n't 
no  more  thought  the  lad  'ould  go  away  nor  she 
'ad  that  the  man  in  the  moon  'ould  coom  down 
to  live  wid  her.  But  the  father  said  as  if  the 
boy  went  'e  'd  go  too ;  an'  then  she  wur  mad, 
an'  says  she,  — 

"  Ye  'd  better  be  off  wid  ye,  John  McKiernan, 
than  stoppin'  at  'ome,  uphowldin'  the  boy  in 
bad  ways.  A  man  o'  your  age  !  Ye  'd  better 
be  on  your  knees  a-sayin'  your  prayers." 

Then  the  father  an'  son  marched  off,  'oldin' 
up  their  'eads  like  soldiers ;  an'  they  both 
stopped  out  late  that  night,  an'  coom  'ome  a- 
roarin'  an'  singin'.  John  McKiernan  is  quite  a 
pote  ;  'e  makes  little  rhymes,  an'  puts  the  words 
in  their  places  so  's  the  verses  coom  out  right ; 
an'  when  'e  coom  into  the  kitchen,  a-racketin' 
an'  a-knockin'  over  the  chairs  in  the  dark,  'e 
was  singin'  away  verses  about  Ellen  'ersei',  as 
'e  'd  made  up.  She  'eared  'im,  but  she  spake 
never  a  word,  only  bolted  'er  bedroom  door  fast ; 
while  'e  begins  to  sing,  When  I  was  a  Bachelor, 
an  owld  Irish  song,  as  I  'ave  'eared  my  father 
sing  when  I  was  a  bit  of  a  girl.  There  's  not 
manny  folk  as  know  it  now.  I  can  say  it  in 
Irish  an'  English  both.  'E  shouted  out  in  the 
dead  o'  night,  the  most  aggeravatin'  of  all  the 
verses  :  — 


262  BRIDGETS  STORY. 

"  I  fancied  the  mopsey, 
Her  fortune  'as  deceived  me, 
It  makes  me  cry  an'  often  sigh, 
The  shirt  I  cannot  wear  it. 

"  When  I  rise  in  the  morning, 
I  go  to  my  labor, 
I  never  do  coom  'ome, 
Till  duskes  cooms  on  fairly. 

"I  find  me  cabin  dirty, 
An'  me  bed,  it 's  in  bad  order, 
Me  wife  is  cabin  hearing, 
An'  me  baby  always  bawlin'." 

That  was  n't  a  pleasin'  song  for  Ellen  to  'ear, 
an'  it  wur  n't  true,  nayther ;  for  she  's  not  a 
mopsey,  but  a  clean,  decent  body,  as  keeps  a 
nice  'ouse,  an'  does  n't  run  round  to  the  neigh- 
bors no  more  'n  is  reasonable  -  for  a  live  woman, 
as  does  n't  expect  to  wrap  'ersel'  up  in  a  sheet, 
an'  keep  as  distant  from  folks  as  a  ghost. 

When  'c  'ad  finished  the  verses,  an*  was  just 
beginnin'  again  When  I  was  a  Bachelor,  Mc- 
Kiernan  tries  the  bedroom  door,  an'  finds  it 
locked  on  'im.  So  then  *e  swears,  an'  Ellen 
spakes  for  the  first  time,  an'  calls  through  the 
keyhole,  — 

"  I  Ve  got  the  childer  in  'ere,  an'  I  've  spent 
the  night  a-prayin'  for  you.  You  an'  Tom  may 
go  up  to  the  attic ;  an'  my  counsel  is  for  you  to 
get  on  yer  knees  yersel'." 

Then  there  was  more  row,  an'  at  the  last  Mr. 


BRIDGETS  STORY.  263 

McKiernan  an'  'is  son  both  posted  off  ;  an'  the 
Lord  knows  where  they  passed  the  night. 

In  the  mornin'  the  father  coom  an'  fetched  'is 
clothes  an'  the  lad's,  an'  they  both  got  board 
together  nigh  to  the  mill,  where  Mr.  McKier- 
nan is  a  spinner. 

Ellen  took  it  pretty  lofty  at  first. 

"It's  well  they  're  away,"  said  she.  "The 
owld  man  was  daft  about  the  lad,  an'  I  '11  not 
deny  'e  's  a  'andsome,  well-lookin'  boy ;  but  if 
there  'd  'a'  been  a  robbery  or  a  murder  in  the 
street,  an'  Tom  'ad  been  arrested  on  us,  we 
could  not  have  accounted  for  'im,  for  'alf  the 
time  we  did  not  know  where  'e  was.  As  for 
the  man,  we  've  lived  together  two  an'  twenty 
year,  an'  now,  if  'e  's  minded  to  go  away,  I  '11 
niver  go  after  'im,  nor  ask  'im  to  coom  back,  — 
no,  not  so  much  as  walk  by  Mrs.  Flinn's  'ouse, 
where  'e  boards.  I  counseled  'im  in  good  ways, 
an'  the  ways  of  the  church,  an'  I  '11  not  make  any 
lamentation  because  'e  's  gone.  It 's  every  day 
such  things  'appen,  a  man  leaves  'is  woman. 
Lettin'  alone  is  the  best  treatment  for  'em." 

For  all  'er  talk,  I  often  seed  'er  eyes  was  red, 
an'  she  went  to  church  steadier  'n  ever,  an'  she 
'ad  the  childer  an'  'ersel'  a  prayin'  a  good  bit  o' 
the  time. 

There  was  another  in  trouble,  too,  an'  that 
was  little  Rosie  Roberts,  a  pretty  girl,  with  yel- 


264  BRIDGETS  STORY. 

low  'air  as  looks  like  a  dandelion.  She  'd  set 
'er  'eart  on  Tom  McKiernan,  but  'er  folks  was 
always  agin  it.  They  was  pretty  'igh-toned 
people.  The  mother  kep'  a  store,  an'  the  fa- 
ther was  on  the  train.  They  looked  'igh  for 
Rosie,  an'  the  mother  watched  'er  like  a  cat. 
They  was  Protestants  too,  an'  the  difference  of 
religion  made  troubles  both  sides.  For  my  part, 
I  think  as  we  all  worships  the  same  God,  — 
still,  I  confess  as  what  he  'as  ordained  he  'as 
ordained,  an'  it  '11  stan'  forever ;  an'  them  as 
doesn't  go  to  mass  misses  a  blessing,  sure,  as 
they  might  'ave ;  for  the  mass  is  a  holy  thing  as 
'ull  do  any  body  good,  an'  not  Catholics  alone. 

I  'm  not  goin'  to  say  as  it 's  well  for  Protes- 
tants an'  Catholics  to  wed,  but  I  always  liked 
Rosie,  an'  when  I  see  'ow  'er  'eart  was  set  on 
Tom,  I  was  such  a  great  fool  as  I  thought  the 
religion  'ould  not  make  so  much  'arm,  for  she 
wur  not  one  to  argue,  an'  I  wished  Tom  'ould 
behave  himsel'  an'  marry  'er,  an'  be  a  good  man 
to  'er,  for  I  does  like  to  see  young  folks  'appy. 

But  oh,  when  Tom  was  out  o'  'is  mother's 
eye,  it  seemed  as  if  'e  would  go  to  the  devil 
straight,  for  Mr.  McKiernan  could  no  more  man- 
age the  lad  nor  a  three-year  old  child  could  fly 
a  six-foot  kite.  The  boy  went  from  bad  to 
worse,  an'  Mr.  Roberts  forbade  'im  the  'ouse  en- 
tirely, an'  Rosie's  eyes  was  redder  'n  Ellen's. 


BRIDGET'S  STORY.  265 

I  coomed  by  Mr.  Roberts'  one  night,  an'  I 
seed  Rosie  hangin'  over  the  gate,  talkin'  with 
Tom,  outside.  There  was  a  bright  moon,  an'  I 
seed  the  sad  look  was  gone  from  'er  bonny  face, 
which  was  all  dimples  an'  smiles.  But  as  I  was 
a-staring  at  'er,  out  coom  Mr.  Roberts,  like  a 
turkey  gobbler  rushin'  at  a  red  rag,  an'  dragged 
Rosie  in,  swearin'  as  she  should  not  go  to  shame 
right  out  of  'er  father's  door.  Tom  started  af- 
ter, but  Rosie  cried  out  for  'im  to  go  away ;  an' 
Missis  Roberts  an'  a  lot  more  women  coom  out, 
a-talkin'  an'  yellin',  an'  they  got  the  girl  in,  an' 
shut  the  door,  an'  left  Tom  outside  fightin'  wid 
Rosie's  brother. 

I  coom  away  then,  for  I  spied  the  policeman 
a-coomin'  up  the  street ;  an'  that 's  a  sight  as 
'as  a  won'erf ul  power  to  put  a  stop  to  an  old 
woman's  curiosity. 

I  went  into  Missis  Roberts's  store  the  next 
day,  an'  Rosie  was  there,  with  'er  little  sister  in 
'er  lap,  —  a  baby  as  is  fretful,  an'  always  wants 
summun  to  be  settin'  under  'er.  Rosie  looked 
very  pale,  but  'er  mother,  she  was  scowlin'  and 
black  in  the  face.  The  super  of  the  Sunday- 
school  was  there,  a-sayin',  — 

**  Missis  Roberts,  I  'm  very  sorry  as  Rosie 
should  ha'  set  gossip  goin'  about  'er." 

Then  Missis  Roberts  rose  up  to  'er  feet  an' 
flung  out  'er  'and  at  the  girl,  an'  says,  "  There, 


266  BRIDGETS  STORY. 

Rosie !  do  ye  'ear  that  ?  Perhaps  you  '11  mind 
what  your  mother  says  after  this,  an'  not  wait 
till  the  stones  in  the  streets  is  a  hollain'  out  my 
very  words,  an'  cryin'  shame  on  ye." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  super,  tryin'  then  to  quiet  the 
mother  down,  "  I  've  no  manner  o'  doubt  Rosie 
'11  be  a  good  girl  after  this." 

'E  spoke  to  the  baby,  an'  'e  said  as  'e  'd  like 
to  buy  some  tape,  an'  so  'e  got  away ;  but  Rosie 
said  never  a  word  to  'im,  only  grew  whiter  'n' 
whiter,  an'  let  'er  'ands  fall  down  at  'er  side, 
so  's  the  baby  'ad  to  'old  'er  own  little  back  up. 

While  the  super  was  buyin'  the  tape,  I  said 
to  Rosie,  — 

"'Ad  you  been  walkin'  with  Tom,  last 
night?" 

"  Yes,"  said  she  ;  "  we  'd  walked  from  the 
grocer's.  I  only  met  'im  by  chance." 

"But  you  like  'im,"  said  I,  "an'  'e's  a  wild 
lad." 

"  We  never  'ad  no  love  talk,"  said  she ;  an' 
then,  in  a  minute  more,  she  spake  again :  "  I  '11 
never  stay  'ere  to  be  talked  about." 

Then  the  mother  coom  back  to  us,  an'  I  went 
out  o'  the  store. 

Sure  enough,  the  girl  runned  away,  an'  then 
there  was  more  talk  than  ever  about  'er. 

Ellen  coom  out  in  the  middle  of  the  day  to 
tell  me,  though  she  was  doin'  a  bleach,  an'  'ad 


BRIDGETS  STORY.  267 

not  so  much  as  a  shawl  about  'er.  She  'd  just 
run  out  in  'er  figger.  She  cried,  an'  said  as  'ow 
Tom  was  good  enough  for  any  girl  in  the  place : 
an'  one  minute  she  vowed  'e  was  too  good  for  a 
girl  as  'ould  do  such  a  shameful  thing  as  run 
away  from  'ome,  an'  next  she  'd  say  that  Rosie 
was  a  sweet  innocent  thing,  an'  she  'oped  she  'd 
see  'er  Tom's  wife  yet,  an'  it  was  only  people's 
goin'  back  an'  forth  an'  tellin'  things  as  'ad  ever 
made  any  trouble.  She  was  just  distraught, 
an'  she  said  whatever  coom  into  'er  silly  'ead ; 
so  at  last  it  cooin  out  that  when  Tom  'ad  'eared 
as  Rosie  was  gone  'e  'ad  quit  work,  an'  was  on 
a  spree  then. 

"An'  I've  not  seen  'im,"  cried 'is  mother; 
"  I  only  'ear  about  'im  on  the  street,  —  my  own 
eldest  born ! " 

I  met  Tom  a  day  or  two  after  on  the  street, 
an'  I  went  up  to  'im,  an'  laid  a  'and  on  'is  arm. 
I  looked  'im  steady  in  the  eye,  an'  'e  reddened 
a  bit,  an'  'is  mouth  trembled  like  a  baby's. 

"  Tom,"  said  I,  "  what 's  the  use  of  a  fine  lad 
like  you  goin'  to  the  bad,  when  'e  might  just  as 
easy  go  to  the  good,  an'  make  'is  friends  all 
'appy?" 

"  It 's  not  many  friends  I  'as,"  said  the  young 
fellow.  "You  know,  Bridget,  I'd  never  V 
done  'arm  to  Rosie ;  but  she  runs  away,  when 
she  'ears  'er  name  mentioned  with  mine,  as  if  I 
was  the  plague." 


268  BRIDGET'S  STORY. 

"  Oh,""  says  I,  "  you  think  you  'd  never  'a' 
done  'er  'arm ;  but  it 's  little  lads  know  what 
they  '11  coom  to  do  as  keeps  bad  company,  an' 
takes  no  counsel  but  their  own  wild  wishes. 
She  runned  to  save  'ersel',  —  a  wise  little  body  ! 
Go  after  'er,  Tom,  bring  'er  'ome  to  be  your 
mother's  daughter,  an'  make  up  your  mind  once 
for  all  to  be  a  decent,  steady  man." 

I  don't  know  what  got  into  me  to  speak  them 
words,  but  when  'e  'eared  me,  first  'e  grew 
white,  an'  then  'e  grew  red. 

"  You  're  a  wise  woman,"  said  he,  an'  'e 
walked  away,  an'  the  next  day  they  telled  me 
'e  'ad  gone  from  the  town. 

The  Robertses  soon  'eared  from  Rosie,  'ow 
she  'ad  got  a  good  place  with  a  rich  family  in 
Fall  River ;  so  they  thought  it  best  to  leave  'er 
there.  But  where  Tom  was  we  did  not  know. 

Well,  Ellen  took  it  'ard,  an'  she  seemed  to 
feel  the  father's  bein'  away  more,  now  Tom  was 
clean  gone  ;  an'  yet  the  man  did  not  coom  back. 
She  'd  stan'  at  'er  door  at  night,  an'  strain  'er 
eyes  lookin'  towards  the  mill,  where  McKiernan 
worked,  but  she  never  see  'im  coomin'  towards 
'er.  Eh,  but  women  is  queer  creatur's,  cryin' 
an'  scoldin'  an'  sputterin',  yet  lovin'  all  the 
while. 

She  fell  sick,  bein'  so  worried,  an'  one  night 
I  stayed  wid  'er.  I  was  dozin'  in  the  kitchen, 


BRIDGET'S  STORY.  269 

when  I  'eared  a  great  crash ;  I  runned  into  the 
other  room,  an'  there  Ellen  lay  on  the  floor,  wid 
'er  eyes  wide  starin'  open,  an'  'er  limbs  stretched 
out  on  the  boards,  an'  in  one  'and  she  'ad  a  lock 
o'  'er  own  'air,  as  she  'd  pulled  out. 

"  Oh,"  cried  I,  "  'ow  long  'ave  you  been 
there?" 

"  Whisht,  whisht !  "  says  she.  "  Do  ye  'ear 
the  music  ?  " 

*'  Music !  "  says  I.     "  Are  ye  mad  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  says  she,  "  it 's  gran'  music  ;  an'  do 
ye  see  the  fine  yoong  ladies  as  is  makin  it? 
There  they  is,  all  stan'in'  round  against  the  wall. 
Look  at  'em,  dressed  in  white,  an'  with  bells  on 
their  fingers ! " 

She  was  so  wild,  I  was  scared,  an'  I  humored 
'er  a  bit,  an'  said  as  I  'eared  'em  an'  seed  'em, 
an'  coaxed  'er  the  while  back  to  bed. 

She  laid  'er  'ead  down  on  the  pillow,  an' 
fetched  a  great  sigh.  "  Ah,"  says  she,  "  they 
're  just  vanishin',  vanishm',  an'  the  music  'a 
a-fadin'  away." 

Then  she  wrung  'er  'ands  an'  fell  a-cryin', 
an'  I  'ad  plenty  o'  work  that  night  to  do,  car- 
ing for  'er.  But  she.  mended  fearful  'at  after, 
an'  in  a  day  or  two  she  was  quite  well. 

Then  she  went  to  the  priest,  an'  telled  'im  all 
'er  trouble  :  'ow  Mr.  McKiernan  'ad  been  a  good 
'usband  an'  very  agreeable  to  'er  for  twenty-two 


270  BRIDGETS  STORY. 

years,  an'  'ow  'ard  she  thought  it  as  'e  should 
leave  'er  now ;  an'  she  towld  'im  all  about  Tom, 
too. 

Father  Kent  treated  'er  very  kind,  an' 
Sciys  GJ  ' 

"I  cannot  'elp  ye  about  Tom.  Yoong  men 
will  'ave  their  fling ;  an'  any  way,  'e  's  beyond 
my  reach.  Ye  can  do  nought  but  pray  for  'im, 
as  was  always  a  mother's  work,  from  the  time 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  As  for  your  'usband, 
I  '11  see  to  'im." 

Ellen  coomed  'ome  wid  a  lighter  'eart,  an' 
waited,  wid  'er  little  ones  around  'er,  for  the 
man  as  she  'oped  soon  to  see  darken  'er  door. 

Father  Kent  went  twice  to  the  mill  to  see  Mr. 
McKiernan,  an'  the  second  time  the  man  got 
mad,  an'  spake  up  saucy,  an'  said  queer  things 
to  the  priest. 

"  I  don't  doubt,  Father  Kent,"  says  'e,  "  as 
you  're  a  scholard  an'  a  gentleman,  an'  I  knows 
you  're  a  priest,  but  you  need  n't  be  meddlin' 
with  me." 

Then  Father  Kent  stamped  'is  foot,  an'  says  'e, 

"  You  've  'eared  what  I  'ad  to  say,  McKier- 
nan. Go  ye  'ome  to  your  wife,  an'  don't  force 
me  to  coom  again  about  this  business." 

An'  that  night  Mr.  McKiernan  went  'ome. 
Ellen  telled  me  all  about  it.  She  wur  stan'in' 
at  the  table  cuttin'  out  a  dress  for  a  neighbor ; 


BRIDGET'S  STORY.  271 

for  she  's  very  'andy  at  such  things,  an'  willin' 
to  do  little  jobs  o'  that  sort  for  anybody.  It 
was  about  nine  in  the  evenin',  an'  as  she  stood 
•with  'er  back  to  the  door  in  stalked  Mr.  McKier- 
nan,  lookin'  as  sour  as  a  boy  as  'as  been  licked. 
Ellen's  'eart  give  a  jump,  but  she  never  said 
nothin',  nor  turned  round,  only  caught  a  side 
glance  of  'im  as  'e  went  past  'er. 

'E  sat  down  in  a  chair,  an'  'e  kicked  off  first 
one  shoe,  an'  then  another ;  an'  all  the  while  'er 
scissors  wur  goin'  faster  than  ever.  When  'e  'd 
sat  still  about  five  minutes,  up  'e  got,  an' 
stamped  away  to  'is  room.  Then  Ellen  turned, 
an'  threw  up  'er  arms  wid  a  great  swoop,  an' 
says  she,  'alf  aloud,  — 

"  Lord  save  us,  see  the  ghost !  "  An'  the  lit- 
tle childer  began  to  titter  at  that. 

"  Shut  up,"  says  she,  "  laughin'  at  your  dad." 
But  little  Peter,  he  giggled  on,  an'  the  father 
growled  from  the  other  room ;  so  Ellen  caught 
up  the  boy,  an'  rocked  'im,  an'  hugged  'im,  an' 
got  'im  quiet.  She  was  that  glad  'er  'usband 
'ad  coom  'ome,  I  think,  she  did  not  care  'ow  mad 
an'  glum  'e  acted. 

When  Mr.  McKiernan  came  out  for  'is  break- 
fast, the  next  morning,  Ellen  flew  to  the  table, 
an'  began  movin'  some  dishes. 

"  I  '11  clear  off  Peter's  things,"  said  she. 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  McKiernan,  "  ye  like  to  'ear 


272  BRIDGETS  STORT. 

yersel'  talk;"  an'  'e  shoveled  in  'is  meat,  an' 
said  no  more,  till  she  asked  'im,  timid-like, 
should  she  send  'is  dinner  to  the  mill. 

"Aren't  ye  the  'ousekeeper?"  says  'e,  sharp 
again.  "  Ye  like  to  'ear  yersel'  talk ;  "  an'  off 
'e  went  to  'is  work. 

That  afternoon  I  was  goin'  by,  an'  Ellen 
called  me  to  coom  in. 

"  I  must  go  'ome  an'  feed  my  cat,"  said  I. 

She  squealed.  "  Hoot  wi'  yer  cat,"  says  she. 
"  I  hunted  'er  off  o'  my  chickens  the  other  day. 
Coom  in ;  it 's  sum  mat  better  worth  'earin'  nor 
a  cat's  meaowin',  as  I  'ave  to  tell  ye." 

So  I  stopped  in,  an'  she  made  me  laugh  till 
my  sides  ached  a-mimickin'  all  Mr.  McKiernan's 
gran'  ways  an'  sour  looks.  But  she  quit  'er 
laughin'  an'  cried  a  bit,  savin',  — 

"  I  'm  the  wretchedest  mother  in  the  town," 
says  she ;  "  an'  Father  Kent  said  'e  could  not 
'elp  me  about  Tom." 

So  wantin'  to  cheer  'er,  I  says,  — 

"Mr.  McKiernan  only  shows  'is  good  sense 
in  coomin'  'ome,  Ellen.  There  's  not  a  woman 
I  knows  as  keeps  a  cheerfuller  kitchen." 

"It  'ould  not  ha'  been  cheerful  long,"  says 
she,  "  if  'e  'ad  not  coom,  for  I  'm  near  out  o' 
money." 

"  Well,  'e  is  coom,"  says  I.  "  An'  now  you 
must  keep  'im.  What  did  you  send  'im  for  'is 
dinner  ?  " 


BRIDGETS  STORY.  273 

"  Beefsteak,"  says  she,  catchin'  up  little  Pe- 
ter, as  'ad  been  pullin'  at  'er  knee,  an'  suckin' 
at  a  lump  o'  sugar. 

"  That 's  right,"  says  I.  "Now  you  must  ha' 
summat  good  for  'is  supper." 

"  Yes,"  says  she.     "  What  do  ye  think  on  ?  " 

"  Scollops,"  says  I. 

"  What 's  them  ?  "  says  she,  takin'  'old  of  Pe- 
ter's 'ands,  an'  swingin'  'im  down  to  the  floor, 
an'  then  bringin'  'im  up  again  on  'er  knees,  an' 
'e  a-laughin'  till  'e  almost  choked. 

"A  kind  o'  fish,"  says  I.  "I'll  be  bound 
Mr.  McKiernan  'ull  like  'em.  Send  Katie  down 
to  the  market  for  'em.  They  '11  be  about  thirty 
cents  the  quart." 

So  she  said  she  would ;  an'  I  seed  she  felt 
quite  'appy,  so  I  picked  up  my  shawl  an'  the 
pail  of  milk  I  was  takin'  'ome,  an'  trudged  on 
to  my  cellar  an'  my  cat. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  an'  as  I  was  on 
my  way  'ome  from  church,  when  I  got  opposite 
Mr.  McKiernan's  'ouse,  Ellen,  as  was  stan'in'  in 
the  door,  not  'avin'  took  off  'er  bonnet,  called 
to  me. 

"  Just  stop  to  dinner,  Bridget !  "  says  she. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  says  I.  "  A  family  likes  to  'ave 
its  Sunday  dinner  to  theirsel's." 

Her  face  clouded,  but  Mr.  McKiernan,  as  was 
smokin'  in  the  yard,  says, — 

18 


274  BRIDGETS  STORY. 

"  Coom  in,  Bridget ;  there  's  always  a  seat 
for  you  at  my  table." 

So  seein'  'im  so  cordial,  I  went  in ;  an'  Ellen, 
I  thought,  was  glad  not  to  be  much  alone  wid 
'im.  I  sat  there  till  about  three,  when  'e 
marches  up  to  'is  wife  an'  speaks  very  pleasant, 
an'  says,  "  Just  make  me  a  cup  o'  tea,  Ellen ;  " 
an'  up  she  jumps,  with  smiles  all  over  'er  face,  to 
do  it.  Then  I  thought  they  was  gettin'  friendly, 
an'  I  coomed  away. 

But  she  bade  me  in  the  very  next  night,  for 
she  said  she  'ad  to  ask  'im  for  money,  an'  she 
felt  she  'd  be  bolder  to  do  it  if  I  was  by.  So 
Monday  evening  I  was  there  before  duskes. 
They  was  always  a  family  as  provided  well,  the 
way  I  like  to  see  folks  do,  —  'alf  a  barrel  o'  flour, 
an'  'alf  a  keg  o'  butter,  an'  a  whole  ham  at  a 
time ;  but  while  Mr.  McKiernan  was  off,  Ellen 
had  been  put  to  it  to  keep  things  up,  an'  'ad  run 
low  in  every  way. 

After  we  'ad  'ad  a  good  supper,  she  picked  up 
Jimmy,  one  o'  the  little  boys ;  an'  while  Peter 
hung  on  'er  knees,  she  poked  'er  fingers  careless- 
like  into  the  'oles  in  Jimmy's  shoes,  till  'e 
squealed  out  as  she  tickled  'im,  an'  says  he,  — 

"  Mammy,  I  want  some  new  shoes." 

"  Eh,"  says  I,  "  let 's  see  the  shoes  ye  've  got 
on." 

Then  the  little  fellow  twisted  round  in  'is 
mother's  lap,  an'  stuck  out  'is  two  feet  to  me. 


BRIDGET'S  STORY.  275 

"  They  're  awful  bad,"  says  the  boy.  An' 
Mr.  McKiernan  spoke  up  from  the  table,  where 
'e  sat  readin'  an  owld  paper : 

"  Why  don't  you  get  'im  some  shoes,  Ellen  ?  " 

'E  spoke  gently,  an'  Ellen  laughed,  an'  says 
she,  — 

"  I  never  knew  shoes  to  coom  walkin'  into  a 
'ouse  without  feet  in  'em,  or  feet  goin'  after 
'em." 

"  An'  money,  too,"  says  I. 

"  Don't  ye  'ave  no  paper  now  ?  "  says  Mr. 
McKiernan,  takin'  no  notice  of  what  we  'd  been 
a-sayin'. 

"  No,"  says  Ellen.  "  There  wan't  nobody  to 
read  it,  an'  I  stopped  it." 

"  Well,"  says  'e,  risin'  up,  "  I  '11  go  an'  give 
an  order  for  one  to  be  left  every  night,  after 
this." 

"  That  '11  be  good,"  says  Ellen,  bent  on 
pleasin'  'im,  "for  I  did  miss  'earin'  you  talk 
about  the  news." 

Then  she  played  some  more  with  Jimmy's 
shoes  ;  an'  says  'e  again,  like  a  little  parrot,  — 

"  Mammy,  I  want  some  shoes." 

"  Ah,"  says  the  mother,  "  I  'd  give  you  some, 
quick,  if  I  'ad  the  money  ;  but  fifty  cents  won't 
buy  ye  shoes,  now  you  've  growed  so  big.  An' 
fifty  cents  is  all  my  fortune,"  says  she,  her  voice 
just  flutterin'  a  bit,  an'  she  gettin'  pretty  red. 


276  BRIDGETS  STORY. 

Then  as  the  man  did  not  speak,  she  began 
again,  a-singin'  with  a  little  tremble,  an'  pattin' 
Jimmy's  knee,  — 

"  My  face  is  my  fortune." 

"  Jimmy,  my  lad,  what  do  you  think  o'  that 
for  an  old  woman  like  me  ?  Only  my  face." 

Mr.  McKiernan  'ad  got  on  'is  coat  by  this 
time,  an'  says  'e,  in  a  lofty  way,  — 

"  Give  rne  your  fifty  cents,  Ellen,  an'  I  '11  give 
you  a  ten-dollar  bill  for  it." 

Ye  may  be  sure,  she  was  n't  no  great  time 
makin'  that  change;  an'  'e  went  out  o'  the 
'ouse,  an'  she  clapped  on  'er  bonnet  an'  shawl, 
an'  started  off  'ersel'  for  the  shoes. 

They  coomed  back  together,  talkin'  an'  car- 
ryin'  parcels  like  a  couple  of  yoong  sweet'earts, 
an'  I  just  laughed  at  'em.  As  we  all  stood 
round,  with  the  childer  'angin'  on  our  legs,  the 
door  burst  open,  an'  in  coom  Tom  an'  Rosie. 

"  Holloa ! "  cried  Tom  ;  an'  Ellen  fetched  a 
screech,  an'  rushed  at  the  lad  as  if  she  'd  smother 
'im  ;  but  Rosie  stood  apart,  with  a  shy  look  in 
'er  eyes  an'  a  blush  on  'er  cheek,  till  Tom  left 
'is  mother,  an'  took  the  girl's  'and,  an'  said,  like 
a  man,  — 

"  I  went  after  'er,  an'  one  day,  as  she  was 
washin'  dishes,  I  coom  softly  into  the  kitchen  ; 
an'  when  she  looked  up  she  saw  me,  an'  she 


BRIDGETS  STORY.  277 

cried  out,  an'  let  the  cup  fall  as  she  was  oldin', 
an'  it  broke,  an  out  coom  the  missus  to  know 
what  was  the  matter ;  an'  I  telled  'em  both  to- 
gether as  I  'd  made  up  my  mind  to  be  a  steady 
fellow,  an'  I  'd  coom  to  marry  Rosie  ;  an'  Rosie> 
she  made  believe  as  she  did  n't  care  about  me, 
till  the  missus  laughed,  an'  bade  'er  speak  the 
truth ;  an'  then  "  — 

"  Now,  Tom,  you  need  n't  say  no  more,"  said 
Rosie;  an'  Mr.  McKiernan  marched  up  to  'er, 
an'  says,  very  courteous-like,  — 

"  I  '11  make  ye  kindly  welcome  to  be  my  son's 
wife." 

"  Eh,  but  she  's  that  already  !  "  cried  Tom. 
"  We  was  married  a  week  ago." 

Everybody  screamed  but  Ellen,  who  just 
throwed  'er  arms  round  the  girl's  neck  an' 
hugged  'er  'ard. 


VALENTINE'S*  CHANCE. 


THE  May  day  was  so  soft  and  warm  that  Dr. 
John  Valentine  flung  himself  on  the  ground,  at 
the  edge  of  the  pond.  Alder  and  oak  bushes 
shaded  his  head.  Swamp  lands  rose  just  above 
the  surface  of  the  water,  and  with  their  wet 
greenness  hid  from  his  eyes  the  current  of  the 
river,  whose  gentle  ripples  defined  its  course 
through  the  smoother  waters.  Valentine's  boat 
was  moored  near  him,  its  keel  well  aground  in 
the  shallows.  Behind  him  a  steep  bank  rose  to 
the  level  of  the  fields,  which  sloped  away  to  the 
village.  The  river  changed  its  direction  when 
it  left  the  pond,  and  cut  the  village  in  halves ; 
then  turned  again,  and  sought  the  southern  tide 
waters. 

Valentine  stared  a  moment  at  a  robin  which 
stood  with  an  erect  head  near  his  feet,  and  then 
took  out  a  block  of  paper  and  began  to  write. 
He  was  a  wealthy  youth,  and  neglected  his 


VALENTINE'S  CHANCE.  279 

office  hours  to  scribble.  Failure  had  not  seared 
his  faith,  and  he  believed  that  what  he  so  ar- 
dently longed  to  say  some  one  must  really  need 
to  hear.  An  unuttered  thought  seemed  to  him 
like  a  seed  that  does  not  germinate,  something 
wasted.  He  came  of  a  country  family  of  good 
standing  in  an  inland  Massachusetts  district. 
His  people  were  the  "best  people"  of  the 
neighborhood,  and  the  lad  had  grown  up  among 
kinsfolk  who  read  good  books  and  exercised  a 
generous  social  spirit,  although  they  lived  sim- 
ply, and  kept  a  healthy  interest  in  the  soil,  in 
seed-time  and  harvest,  in  cattle  and  in  trees. 
Thus  between  the  influences  of  nature  and  cul- 
ture, he  grew  refined,  sensitive,  emotional,  and 
well-bred.  He  had  had  enough  town  life  to 
perfect,  but  not  enough  to  wear  away,  the  out- 
lines of  his  character.  Noble  manners  and  real 
thoughts  had  held  such  authority  in  the  life 
with  which  he  was  familiar,  that  the  rules  by 
which  conventional  people  govern  themselves 
seemed  chiefly  amusing  to  him.  An  inherit- 
ance of  anti-slavery  blood  contributed  to  render 
easy  his  disregard  of  trammels.  He  had  never 
learned  to  be  afraid  of  his  own  individuality, 
but  his  sweet  nature  had  hindered  him  from 
thinking  it  necessary  to  assert  that  individuality 
by  being  disagreeable.  A  self -analyzing  ten- 
dency was  the  one  thing  in  him  which  endan- 


280  VALENTINE'S   CHANCE. 

gered  his  growth  in  sunny  and  vigorous  man- 
hood. Here  lay  the  germ  of  possibly  morbid 
action  or  ruinous  introversion. 

The  robin  sped  away,  and  Valentine  wrote  on 
through  the  May  afternoon,  till  steps  sounded 
from  the  narrow  path  which  led  along  the  bank 
half-way  up  the  slope,  and  a  girl's  voice,  odd 
and  sweet,  broke  upon  the  quiet.  Valentine 
perceived  that  she  was  speaking  the  Cana- 
dian patois.  Suddenly,  there  was  the  noise  of 
some  one  slipping,  tearing  at  the  bushes,  and 
then  a  man  came  crashing  down  and  fell  head- 
long, muttering  an  oath,  at  Valentine's  feet. 
The  girl  gave  a  quick  cry  and  darted  after 
him. 

"  Jack  and  Jill,"  said  the  doctor,  rising  in 
amazement.  But  the  girl  had  not  fallen,  al- 
though she  was  already  on  her  knees  beside  the 
man.  Valentine  lifted  the  fellow  up  and  set 
him  against  the  bank,  and  looked  at  him  with 
disgusted  interest. 

"  He  drunk,"  said  the  girl  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone. 

The  man  did  not  seem  to  be  hurt,  but  very 
much  dazed. 

"  What  you  bring  me  to  such  a  place  for, 
Rose  Beauvais?"  he  asked,  stupidly  accusing 
her  in  French.  "  Of  course  I  fall." 

"  Well,   you   sit   still   now,"    she   answered 


VALENTINE'S   CHANCE.  281 

calmly.  "  Don't  you  go  home  till  night.  Then 
no  one  will  see  how  horrid  you  look.  Promise 
me." 

He  turned  his  great,  beautiful  eyes  on  her. 
The  smile  that  crossed  his  lips,  though  silly 
with  intoxication,  still  had  something  of  the 
flashing  radiance  mingled  with  sweetness  so 
characteristic  of  the  smiles  of  his  race. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

She  looked  in  the  man's  face,  and  replied  in 
an  unmoved  tone,  "  I  know." 

Valentine  watched  her  curiously.  She  seemed 
to  be  about  fifteen  years  old.  She  wore  a  coarse 
dark  jersey  and  a  short  calico  skirt.  Her  shoes 
were  rough  and  tied  with  strings.  She  put  a 
thin,  long  hand  on  the  Canadian's  shoulder. 
There  were  flecks  of  cotton  on  her  jersey  and 
the  factory  stain  was  on  her  fingers,  but  there 
was  a  peculiar  youthful  grace  in  her  figure  and 
motions. 

"  You  will  stay,"  she  said,  and  the  Canadian 
nodded.  She  stood  up  then,  and  for  an  instant 
her  eyes  met  Valentine's  frankly.  To  his  sur- 
prise, he  felt  a  momentary  awkwardness  and 
was  overcome  by  a  sense  that  he  had  been  de 
trap  in  this  scene. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  "  he  asked 
hastily. 

She  answered,  "  No,"  in  English,  and  to  the 


282  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE. 

other  continued  in  French,  "  You  stay  here, 
Frank,  and  I  '11  bring  you  some  supper." 

The  man  was  too  drowsy  to  reply.  She  re- 
garded him  with  serious  but  undisturbed  gaze. 
It  struck  the  doctor  that  drunkenness  might  be 
a  familiar  factor  in  her  life.  She  turned  away 
at  last,  and  without  any  parting  salutation  went 
along  the  river  bank  towards  the  village.  Val- 
entine spoke  to  the  Canadian,  but  receiving  no 
response  picked  up  his  writing  materials  from 
the  dirt,  climbed  the  bank,  and  crossed  some 
fields  to  the  road,  and  to  a  farm-house  on  the 
opposite  side.  This  farm-house  stood  a  little 
distance  from  the  village,  and  the  farm  belong- 
ing to  it  extended  on  both  sides  of  the  road, 
forming  a  portion  of  the  country  dividing  the 
Blackbird  Hollow  village  from  the  town  above 
it.  Valentine  boarded  at  this  house.  It  was 
not  a  good  place  for  his  practice,  but  he  was  in- 
different to  that,  his  stay  in  the  village  being 
in  the  nature  of  an  experiment  preparatory 
to  his  serious  settling  down  to  professional  life. 

The  evening  continued  mild,  and  a  little  be- 
fore sunset  Valentine  seated  himself  in  a  ham- 
mock under  a  spreading  apple-tree,  whose  buds 
were  beginning  to  show  themselves  pink  in  the 
balmy  air. 

He  was  reading  Miss  Burney's  Letters  by  the 
fading  light,  when  a  little  wagon  came  up  the 


VALENTINES  CHANCE.  283 

path,  drawn  by  a  white  goat.  A  rosy  girl, 
wearing  an  unnecessarily  warm  red  hood,  sat 
on  the  corner  of  the  wagon  and  drove.  Two 
big  buckets  were  the  freight.  Two  dark-eyed 
boys  walked  at  the  goat's  head,  and  ever  and 
anon  tugged  at  the  animal  to  make  her  go 
faster.  A  girl,  whom  Valentine  recognized  as 
the  Rose  Beauvais  whom  he  had  seen  in  the 
afternoon,  walked  behind  the  absurd  equipage. 
A  little  boy  in  petticoats  ran  out  from  the 
house,  his  short  yellow  curls  dancing  all  over 
his  head  and  shining  in  the  light. 

"  Oh,  the  swell  boys  have  come !  "  he  cried, 
and  joined  the  children  as  they  went  on  to  the 
barn.  Valentine  had  seen  them  before.  They 
gathered  up  swill  in  the  village,  and  brought  it 
to  Farmer  Pettingell's  pigs.  Rose  did  not  go 
to  the  barn,  but  after  loitering  in  an  aimless 
way  near  the  kitchen  door  for  a  few  minutes, 
sat  down  on  the  step. 

Mrs.  Petti  ngell  came  out  of  the  house,  bring- 
ing a  pitcher  and  tumbler. 

"  Have  some  buttermilk?"  she  called  to  Val- 
entine. 

"  Yes,  thank  you." 

As  he  took  the  glass,  he  inhaled  the  odor  of 
new-made  butter  which  clung  about  her  hands. 
When  he  had  drunk,  she  beckoned  to  Rose,  and 
poured  out  some  milk  for  her  in  the  tumbler 
which  Valentine  had  just  emptied. 


284  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  get  some  doughnuts  for  them 
children,"  said  she,  and  went  into  the  house. 

Valentine  glanced  at  Rose,  and  decided  that 
she  was  not  very  pretty.  She  had  very  lumi- 
nous, soft  eyes,  but  she  was  pale.  Even  the  lips 
lacked  color,  though  they  were  beautifully  cut, 
and  her  features  were  a  little  thin.  Her  black 
hair  was  braided  and  scarcely  reached  her  shoul- 
ders. A  perfectly  straight  bang  covered"  her 
forehead.  She  held  a  package  in  one  hand. 

"Is  that  the  supper  for  that  man?"  asked 
Valentine,  at  last.  It  did  not  seem  necessary 
to  use  any  ceremony  with  her.  She  flushed, 
and  drew  her  fingers  across  her  lips. 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  think  he  has  stayed  where  you  left 
him?" 

"  Oh,  yes.     He  be  afraid  to  go  away." 

"  Afraid  of  what  ?  " 

She  smiled  as  if  she  did  not  mean  to  tell,  and 
Valentine  asked,  — 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  He  Joe's  brudther." 

"And  who  is  Joe?" 

"  Oh,  Joe,  —  a  machinist  in  the  Jeffreys  mill. 
He  come  first.  So  when  the  brudther  come, 
work  in  machine  shop  too,  ev'rybody  not  know 
his  name.  The  boss,  ev'rybody,  call  him  Joe's 
brudther.  Only  we,  —  we  call  him  Frank." 


VALENTINE'S   CHANCE.  285 

"  You  knew  him  before  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  Canada.     Always." 

What  an  odd,  sweet  note  was  in  her  voice ! 
A  light  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  She  is  pretty,  after  all,"  thought  the  young 
man,  and  he  said  aloud,  "  He  's  a  bad  fellow. 
Not  good  company  for  you." 

She  laughed,  and  turned  her  body  slightly, 
without  moving  her  feet.  Here,  the  children 
came  rushing  back  with  the  goat  and  empty 
buckets,  calling  to  her  as  they  passed, — dark, 
rosy  creatures,  whose  vivid  coloring  made  the 
American  child  toddling  after  them  look  insipid. 

"  You  go  home  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  come  by  and 
by."  She  turned  back  to  Valentine,  and  spoke 
quietly :  "  No,  Joe's  brudther  not  bad  fellow." 
It  was  evidently  a  little  difficult  for  her  to  find 
and  utter  the  words  she  wanted.  Her  pretty 
lips  seemed  to  stumble  over  the  sounds.  "  He 
never  got  drunk  before.  Something  trouble 
him.  He  feel  bad.  He  no  work  to-day.  Some 
fellows  get  him  off,  —  tease  him.  He  tell  me. 
It  lucky  I  fine  him.  I  make  him  stay  in  the 
woods.  He  do  so  no  more.  It  be  all  right." 

Again  that  flashing  smile,  so  bright,  so  unin- 
telligent. Valentine  did  not  feel  pleased.  At 
this  moment,  little  Bobby  Pettingell,  tired  of 
following  the  goat-wagon  with  ineffectual  feet, 
came  up  the  path  crying.  Rose  led  him  to  the 


286  VALENTINE'S   CHANCE. 

kitchen  door.  His  mother  met  them,  and  he 
extended  his  tiny  arms  far  beyond  his  sleeves, 
and  turned  up  a  tear-stained  face,  saying, 
"  Please  do  sumfin'  to  comfort  me." 

Rose  came  slowly  back  to  the  apple-tree. 

"  Do  you  work  in  Mr.  Jeffreys'  mill  ?  "  asked 
Valentine. 

"Yes." 

"  You  were  not  at  work  to-day." 

"  No,  they  fix  the  looms ;  so  I  stay  out  to-day. 
Monday,  I  go  in." 

"  Do  you  like  to  work  ?  " 

"  I  no  mind  in  winter.  Like  to  be  in  mill  as 
much  as  anywhere  then.  Only  getting  up  in 
morning,  —  so  cold  and  dark.  I  think  that 
bad.  My  fadther  have  to  come  up  an'  wake 
me." 

"  And  in  summer  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  with  soft  energy,  "  I  like  to 
be  out-doors  in  summer,  an'  feel  the  air.  I  guess 
I  lazy.  Celia,"  she  went  on,  "  s'e  sit  in  the  sit- 
ting-room, an'  we  have  an  organ,  an'  s'e  play  on 
it.  An'  Georgine  sew  the  clothes,  when  s'e  not 
in  the  mill,  an  the 'little  girls  sweep  up  an'  mind 
the  baby,  but  I  never  stay  in  the  house.  I  stand 
by  the  gate,  an'  see  the  people,  an'  go  in  the 
woods,  an'  look  at  the  sky." 

She  smiled,  as  if  she  thought  herself  both 
whimsical  and  amusing. 


VALENTINES  CHANCE.  287 

"  What  kind  of  work  do  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  weave.  I  run  six  looms.  White  goods. 
I  could  n't  do  the  colored  goods.  So  much 
harder.  That  would  make  me  sick." 

These  words  called  his  attention  to  the  dark 
shade  under  her  eyes. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  she  said  at  last,  paused, 
then  added,  "You  not  tell  about  Joe's  brud- 
ther?" 

"  No.     Good-by,  Kose." 

He  nodded,  felt  ashamed  of  his  scant  courtesy, 
touched  his  hat,  grew  suddenly  more  ashamed, 
and  went  hurriedly  into,  the  house,  saying  to 
himself,  "  She  has  real  beauty  even  now.  She 
may  grow  to  be  very  beautiful,  but  I  suppose 
she  will  marry  that  drunken  fellow  and  get 
coarse." 

Poor  Frank  was  sober  enough  when  Rose 
reached  him ;  that  is,  he  was  sober  enough  to 
cry  and  say  that  he  was  sure  Celia  would  never 
speak  to  him  now,  seeing  that  she  was  mad  at 
him  before,  just  because  Georgine  said  she  saw 
him  talking  with  that  Rosalba  Fluff,  —  and  it 
was  not  he  that  was  with  her;  it  was  Joe. 
"  Celia  don't  like  men  that  drink,"  he  re- 
marked, as  if  it  was  a  peculiar  taste  on  her  part. 

"  You  'd  better  not  drink,  then,"  said  Rose 
coolly. 


288  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE. 

"But  this  time,"  he  answered  dejectedly,  "it 
would  shame  me  to  hide  it."  He  sighed,  then 
rose  like  a  man.  "  I  was  a  fool,"  he  muttered. 
"  I  will  go  tell  her  I  was  a  fool." 

"  I  don't  dare  not  tell  her,"  he  added  in  a 
puzzled  tone.  "  Celia  is  not  like  other  girls.  I 
could  n't  lie  to  her." 

"  Well,  I  think  you  'd  better  tell  her,"  said 
his  companion. 

They  went  to  the  village  together.  The 
Beauvais  family  lived  in  a  square  old  house, 
with  a  big  elm  and  two  old  pines  standing  in 
the  yard.  Celia  sat  alone  on  the  doorstep.  She 
was  a  brown-haired  woman,  with  soft  gray  eyes, 
a  square  chin  and  cheek,  and  a  large,  sweet 
mouth.  She  had  not  so  much  beauty  as  her 
young  lover  had,  but  she  was  pleasant  to  look 
upon.  Rose  stopped  at  the  gate.  Frank  went 
up  to  Celia. 

"  I  have  been  lonesome,"  he  faltered,  and  then 
told  all  his  misery  and  his  error.  Rose  looked 
over  her  shoulder  at  intervals  to  see  how  matters 
progressed,  and  when  at  last  Frank  sat  down 
by  her  sister  she  whirled  about  and  came  de- 
murely towards  them.  Celia's  eyes  were  moist. 
Frank's  cheeks  were  very  red.  He  smiled  like 
a  child  at  Rose. 

"  I  feel  good,"  he  said. 


VALENTINE'S   CHANCE.  289 

II. 

On  Memorial  Day  the  French  Canadians  of 
Blackbird  Hollow  held  a  picnic  in  the  pine 
grove  that  skirted  the  southern  bank  of  the  river 
and  extended  along  the  side  of  the  pond.  Curi- 
osity led  Valentine  to  the  scene.  The  amuse- 
ments were  of  the  ordinary  kind.  There  was  a 
pig  to  be  given  to  the  person  who  guessed  near- 
est to  its  exact  weight.  Some  boys  were  shoot- 
ing at  a  target.  Dark-skinned  young  fellows 
exchanged  laughing  impertinences  with  dark- 
eyed  girls.  Men  and  women  chatted.  Children 
ran  about.  A  crowd  gathered  round  a  platform 
where  there  were  music  and  dancing.  Every- 
body had  a  foreign  color  and  air.  Only  the  sol- 
emn pines  and  the  brilliant  blue  sky  looked 
American. 

Valentine  wandered  about  till  he  discovered 
Rose  Beauvais,  who  stood  a  little  apart  from 
those  who  were  watching  the  dancers.  One  or 
two  boys  went  up  to  her,  and  he  saw  her  shake 
her  head  to  them.  After  some  irresolute  mo- 
ments he  walked  across  the  little  hollow  shaded 
by  hemlocks  that  divided  him  from  her. 

"  Why  don't  you  dance  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  not  know  how." 

"  You  could  learn." 

*'  I  not  want  to  learn.  They  say,  '  Come,  we 
show  you.'  I  not  want  to  be  shown." 


290  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE. 

He  looked  at  her  curiously,  till  a  low,  clear 
voice  broke  on  his  ear. 

"Jack!" 

He  turned  to  receive  Miss  Jeffreys'  out- 
stretched hand.  She  smiled  at  him  from  her 
father's  side ;  a  tall,  fair  woman,  whose  blonde 
hair  grew  low  on  her  forehead,  so  that  she  could 
push  it  back,  and  still  have  a  soft,  fluffy  effect 
of  gold  under  her  broad  hat.  Valentine  knew 
her  well.  Usually,  when  they  met,  they  talked 
about  music,  for  which  each  had  a  fancy,  that 
each  supposed  to  be  a  passion.  Now  she  ex- 
claimed at  the  beauty  of  the  French  Canadians. 
While  she  spoke  Rose  glided  away. 

"See  those  two  girls,"  said  Miss  Jeffreys. 
"Don't  they  make  you  think  of  plump  pi- 
geons ?  " 

Joe's  brother  was  approaching,  with  a  girl 
dressed  in  blue  upon  his  arm.  Behind  him  came 
another  man,  with  a  fair  girl  in  a  gray  gown. 
The  men  were  not  quite  at  their  ease,  but  the 
women  held  their  heads  calmly  erect.  Both 
wore  big  hats  and  showy  gilt  bracelets,  and  car- 
ried their  gloved  hands  folded  in  front  of  their 
round,  firm  waists. 

"  The  blonde  is  the  prettier,"  said  Miss  Jef- 
freys. "  She  looks  like  a  very  amiable  heifer. 
But  what  a  face  the  other  has !  So  serious  and 
fine." 


VALENTINE'S   CHANCE.  291 

Mr.  Jeffreys  spoke :  "  They  are  the  daughters 
of  Beauvais,  one  of  our  carpenters.  That  girl 
who  was  here  when  we  came  up  is  another. 
One  is  a  bride,  I  believe.  Did  you  notice  her 
slippers?  French  Canadian  brides  always  go 
around  in  slippers.  There  is  Beauvais,  now." 

He  pointed  to  a  heavily  built  man  holding 
two  little  girls  by  the  hand. 

"  Oh,  I  know  the  little  girls ! "  cried  Miss 
Jeffreys,  going  up  to  them.  Pretty  soon  she 
returned,  leading  the  children.  "  Now  sing," 
said  the  lady. 

They  looked  shyly  at  each  other,  giggled,  and 
then  two  sweet,  childish  voices  rang  out,  sing- 
ing a  little  song,  beginning,  — 

"  Travaille  bien,  chere  petite, 
Enfille  ta  premiere  aiguille." 

The  people  near  by  stopped  their  talking  to 
listen.  Beauvais's  wife,  a  plump,  matronly 
woman,  carrying  a  small  child,  joined  her  hus- 
band. Valentine  stared  at  Rose,  who  came  to 
her  mother's  side.  He  had  begun  to  take  in 
the  fact  that  it  was  the  girl  in  blue  who  was 
Frank's  bride. 

"  I  like  the  French  people,"  said  Mr.  Jeffreys, 
when  the  children  had  stopped  singing,  and  the 
group  had  melted  away.  "But  all  that  the 
girls  think  of  is  to  get  hats  with  big  feathers. 
You  should  see  how  dirty  they  keep  their 
houses." 


292  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE. 

"  Dirt  is  picturesque,"  said  his  daughter. 

"  A  stale  sentiment !  "  retorted  her  father. 
"We  can't  keep  the  tenements  from  being  inde- 
cently full.  They  take  boarders,  and  pretend 
they  're  all  one  family.  But  they  are  quick  and 
intelligent,  and  save  money,  which  they  take 
back  to  Canada.  They  don't  come  here  to  stay. 
Have  you  ever  noticed  how  few  old  people  there 
are  among  them  ?  They  leave  them  in  Can- 
ada, and  go  back  to  them.  That  Beauvais  fam- 
ily, now, — I  understand  they  are  going  home 
this  summer." 

That  evening  Valentine  wandered  restlessly 
to  the  pond,  and  rowed  across  to  the  village. 
The  sky,  where  the  sunset  flash  lingered,  was 
clearly  reflected  in  the  water.  His  boat  glided 
between  two  expanses  of  color.  No  being  but 
his  own  seemed  to  breathe  with  conscious  life. 
The  birds  which  sought  their  nests  flew  like  au- 
tomata from  shore  to  shore.  The  young  oaks 
on  one  side,  the  pines  on  the  other,  stood  like 
crayon  sketches  against  the  sky.  Nothing  was 
real  to  him  but  his  own  existence. 

He  landed  and  made  his  way  through  the 
streets,  lined  with  factory  tenements.  Here 
was  life  enough,  —  laughter  and  speech,  whis- 
pers and  cries ;  but  as  he  moved  among  it  all 
his  own  individuality  grew  only  more  awfully 
distinct.  He  could  not  fuse  his  soul  with  what 
he  saw. 


VALENTINE'S  CHANCE.  293 

He  came  at  last  to  the  house  where  Beauvais 
lived.  The  yard  was  filled  with  happy  loun- 
gers. Celia  sat  on  the  doorstep  by  her  husband. 
Rose  was  in  her  accustomed  place  by  the  gate. 

"  Good-evening,"  he  said ;  but  she  only  smiled, 
and  he  passed  on. 

Three  evenings  later  he  rowed  again  to  the 
village  shore,  and  as  he  approached  the  land, 
saw  Rose's  little  figure  sitting  on  a  stone,  near 
the  tree  where  he  was  wont  to  tie  his  boat. 
The  sunset  light  showed  the  beautiful  curves  of 
her  mouth  and  the  soft  glow  in  her  eyes.  He 
rested  on  his  oars  a  moment.  He  wanted  to 
make  her  come  out  on  the  water  with  him.  He 
vaguely  felt  that  if  he  could  row  her  away  from 
that  accursed,  tenement-lined  shore,  out  among 
the  grasses  that  grew  in  the  shallows  of  the 
pond,  he  could  then  and  there  discover  what 
manner  of  girl  God  had  made  her  to  be.  He 
knew  he  must  not  take  her.  He  knew  it  would 
be  something  very  like  a  sin  to  ask  this  Cana- 
dian child  to  row  with  him.  She  might  go  with 
rude  and  common  boys,  and  her  sweet  inno- 
cence be  unblamed,  but  not  with  such  as  he. 

When  he  got  out  of  the  boat  he  dallied  a  mo- 
ment, stooping  over  her. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  that  it  was  your 
sister  whom  Joe's  brother  was  going  to  marry  ?  " 
he  demanded. 


294  VALENTINE'S   CHANCE. 

She  raised  her  great  eyes.  "  You  not  know 
that  ? "  she  asked,  and  stood  up,  putting  her 
hands  behind  her.  Hers  was  the  charm  which 
belongs  to  all  girls,  of  high  or  low  degree,  in 
whose  personality  plays  an  elusive  element. 
Her  manner  evermore  suggested  that  she  might 
be  different  from  what  she  seemed ;  perhaps 
subtler,  perhaps  simpler,  but  with  the  odds  in 
favor  of  the  more  attractive  hypothesis  of  mys- 
tery. Withal,  her  smile  was  childlike,  quick  to 
come,  and  very  sweet,  and  the  man  who  saw  it 
that  night  was  young. 

"  Why  did  you  come  here  ?  "  he  asked  at  last. 
He  was  always  asking  her  questions. 

She  hesitated,  then  said,  "  I  like  to  see  the 
water." 

He  smiled.  "  And  did  you  think  I  might 
row  up  and  bring  you  some  candy?  Here  I 
am,  and  here  is  the  candy.  You  'd  better  give 
some  of  it  to  the  bride." 

They  turned  together  towards  the  village. 
"  This  is  my  way,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  path 
leading  in  a  direction  opposite  to  hers.  She 
seemed  to  take  this  as  dismissal,  and  ran  away 
without  a  parting  word.  He  opened  his  lips  to 
call  her  back,  but  seeing  that  he  was  very  near 
the  rear  of  a  big  tenement  house  he  closed  them 
without  uttering  a  sound. 


VALENTINE'S  CHANCE.  295 

m. 

Frank  and  Celia  kept  up  their  wedding  fes- 
tivities for  several  days,  and  then  resumed  their 
ordinary  labors  in  the  Jeffreys  mill  and  ma- 
chine-shop. The  bridegroom  took  up  his  abode 
with  the  Beauvais  family,  and  they  were  all 
jolly  together.  They  liked  to  play  on  various 
cheap  musical  instruments,  and  to  dance,  and 
they  did  not  mind  it  at  all  if  the  feet  of  the 
dancers  left  dust  on  the  floors.  Nobody  cared 
much  about  sleeping,  either;  or  if  anybody 
wanted  to  sleep,  he  was  able  to  do  it,  no  matter 
how  much  mirth  and  noise  disturbed  the  nights. 
Rose  alone  held  herself  a  little  apart.  She  had 
never  been  quite  able  to  mingle  her  feelings 
freely  with  those  of  others. 

"  I  don't  like  so  many  people  about,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "  One  says  one  thing,  and  another 
says  another  thing,  and  it  makes  a  fuss.  I  don't 
like  it." 

Georgine  lived  as  though  laughter  were  a  sy- 
nonymous term  for  life.  Celia  had  a  deeper 
nature,  but  its  serene  poise  was  even  more  re- 
moved from  Rose's  sensitiveness  than  from  the 
blonde  sister's  content.  She  loved  her  husband. 
She  liked  her  home.  She  was  pleased  with  her 
two  new  gowns,  and  especially  delighted  in  some 
sheets  and  pillow-cases,  which  she  had  stitched 
very  neatly,  and  finished  on  her  wedding  day. 


296  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE. 

One  morning,  a  week  after  his  marriage, 
Frank  was  ordered  to  go  to  one  of  the  upper 
rooms  in  the  mill,  to  do  some  repairing.  On 
his  way  to  the  staircase,  he  saw  that  some  casks 
had  just  been  placed  on  the  baggage  lift.  A 
man  had  once  been  employed  to  run  this  eleva- 
tor, but  a  looseness  of  discipline  combined  with 
an  effort  at  economy  prevailed  in  tbe  manage- 
ment, and  he  had  been  assigned  other  tasks 
which  prevented  his  constant  attendance  to  his 
first  duty.  As  a  consequence,  anybody  went 
up  or  down  who  had  freight  in  charge. 

"I  '11  take  that  stuff  up,"  said  Frank  to  the 
young  fellow  who  was  preparing  to  mount. 

"  All  right,"  returned  the  other,  and  passed 
on. 

A  moment  later,  there  came  some  frightful 
creaking  sounds,  then  a  crash,  and  then  a  cry  of 
horror  as  everybody  in  the  room  rushed  for- 
ward. The  lift  had  fallen,  and  Frank's  body 
lay  in  the  wreck.  They  dragged  him  out. 

"  My  God,  who  will  tell  his  wife  ?  "  groaned 
the  superintendent,  Mr.  Lucas,  as  he  bent  over 
the  young  man's  mangled  figure. 

No  one  knew  who  did  tell  her.  She  was  in  a 
distant  building,  but  somehow  she  heard,  and 
when  Mr.  Lucas  went  for  her  he  met  her  run- 
ning between  the  whizzing  machines.  He 
caught  hold  of  her. 


VALENTINE'S  CHANCE.  297 

"  Be  as  quiet  as  you  can,"  he  commanded. 
"Frank  is  living  still." 

She  saw  the  blood  that  was  splashed  over  his 
hands,  and  she  threw  them  from  her  with  a  cry, 
and  fled  past  him  out  into  the  breathless  sun- 
shine. Bearers  had  carried  the  man  home. 
Frank  was  lying  on  the  bed.  Valentine  and  an 
older  surgeon  were  at  work.  The  rooms  were 
full  of  pale  men  and  sobbing  women.  Mr. 
Lucas  presently  came  in,  and  drew  Celia,  all 
shivering  and  shaken,  from  the  bedside. 

"  Do  you  understand  me  ?  "  he  said,  holding 
her  by  the  shoulders.  She  shook  her  head. 
Rose  stepped  forward. 

"  I  can  understand.  I  can  tell  her  what  you 
say,  Mr.  Lucas." 

"  Then  tell  her,"  said  he,  "  that  she  can  help 
Frank  more  than  any  one,  if  she  will  be  quiet. 
She  must  not  cry.  She  must "  —  But  here  Mr. 
Lucas  began  himself  to  cry,  and  stopped.  Rose 
repeated  his  words  in  rapid  French.  The  man 
had  never  seen  such  a  look  as  that  with  which 
Celia  listened. 

"  If  she  is  excited,"  he  choked  out,  "  Frank 
will  be  excited.  He  will  have  fever.  He  will 
die.  Do  you  make  her  understand  ?  " 

Rose  translated  again.  Celia  shuddered, 
straightened  herself,  and  went  back  to  Frank's 
side. 


298  VALENTINE'S   CHANCE. 

"  She  '11  do,"  said  Mr.  Lucas,  and  walked 
into  the  pantry  to  wash  his  hands. 

Frank's  skull  was  broken,  and  he  had  sus- 
tained other  injuries.  The  mother  brought  old 
sheets,  and  Rose  tore  them  in  strips  under 
Valentine's  direction.  The  doctors  worked 
with  grave  faces.  Mr.  Lucas  stood  in  the  door- 
way, and  kept  out  the  crowd  who  would  have 
pressed  in. 

The  physicians  finished  their  labor  and  went 
away.  Mr.  Lucas  took  charge  of  all  necessary 
matters.  Beauvais  and  Joe  and  two  other  men 
were  detailed  to  act  as  nurses.  Celia  sat  all  the 
time  by  her  husband.  Her  hair  was  bound  in 
crimping-pins  and  covered  with  mill  dust.  She 
leaned  forward,  and  held  Frank's  hands.  He 
moved  more  restlessly  and  moaned  more  pain- 
fully, if  she  relaxed  her  grasp.  When  she  per- 
ceived this,  there  came  into  her  face  a  dumb, 
steadfast  patience.  At  night  the  family  were 
provided  with  bedrooms  in  another  part  of  the 
house,  but  Rose  stole  back  in  the  darkness,  and 
crouched  on  the  floor  by  her  sister.  She  was 
there  at  midnight,  when  Valentine  came  in.  He 
did  not  speak  to  her,  but  he  carried  away  a 
vivid  remembrance  of  her  wide,  childish,  pained 
eyes. 

Celia  was  in  the  same  place  in  the  morning, 
when  the  doctors  came  again,  but  she  had 


VALENTINE'S  CHANCE.  299 

brushed  her  hair  smooth.  That  one  night  had 
elevated  the  character  of  her  face  into  some- 
thing very  pure  and  sweet.  It  flashed  across 
Valentine  that  the  typical  Madonna  was  a  peas- 
ant woman.  Then  he  looked  at  Rose,  and  fan- 
cied that  he  saw  the  hint  of  a  similar  womanli- 
ness on  her  brow. 

"  You  must  go  and  rest,"  he  said  to  Celia. 
She  obeyed  him,  going  with  a  slow  motion  to 
another  room.  It  was  her  own  bedroom,  but 
they  had  moved  the  bed,  with  Frank  on  it,  out 
into  the  sitting-room,  so  that  the  little  chamber 
was  nearly  empty.  She  lay  down  on  a  hard 
lounge,  which  stood  against  the  wall.  As  soon 
as  Valentine  had  gone  she  came  back  to  her 
chair,  and  took  Frank's  hands  again  in  hers. 
Rose  whispered  to  her,  but  she  shook  her  head, 
and  turned  her  eyes  on  her  husband. 

Miss  Jeffreys  came  in,  bringing  some  beef 
tea,  and  as  Frank  could  not  take  it  she  coaxed 
Celia  to  drink.  Her  coaxing  was  done  by  ges- 
tures, as  she  could  not  speak  the  Canadian  dia- 
lect; and  indeed,  she  could  not  speak  at  all, 
when  she  looked  at  Celia,  for  crying. 

"  I  never  saw  any  one  like  her,"  she  said  to 
Valentine,  when  she  met  him  a  few  hours  later. 
"  She  realizes  the  ideal  peasant  woman  of  whom 
I  have  read,  with  her  strong,  sweet  nature.  I 
would  rave  if  I  were  in  her  place.  I  should 


800  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE. 

think  she  would  curse  us.  It  was  such  a  horri- 
bly needless  accident." 

Another  time,  when  Miss  Jeffreys  rose  to 
leave  the  house,  which  she  visited  every  few 
hours,  Celia  followed  her,  dog-like  and  dumb, 
into  the  entry.  She  put  her  hand  into  the  lady's, 
and  Miss  Jeffreys,  in  an  agony  of  sympathy, 
passed  her  arm  around  the  girl's  waist.  Then 
Celia  dropped  her  brown  head  on  the  other's 
shoulder,  and  cried.  Miss  Jeffreys  hated  her- 
self, because  she  did  feel  as  if  it  were  strange 
that  she  should  be  there  holding  this  Canadian 
•workwoman  in  her  arms,  and  yet,  all  the  while, 
she  thanked  God  that  she  had  been  able  to 
make  that  silent  heart  turn  to  hers.  But  it  was 
only  a  moment  before  Celia  raised  her  head, 
like  one  who  dares  not  wholly  yield  to  an  emo- 
tion, mastered  a  pitiful  smile,  and  went  back  to 
Frank. 

The  third  day  brought  a  delusive  gleam  of 
hope.  When  Valentine  came  in  the  morning, 
Celia  sat  at  the  breakfast  table,  and  smiled  with 
quick  gratitude.  Rose  was  eating,  too.  The 
young  doctor  went  hurriedly  into  the  patient's 
room.  He  did  not  like  to  see  Rose  putting  a 
piece  of  pork  into  her  mouth  with  a  big  knife. 
Celia  followed  him,  and  hung  over  her  hus- 
band's poor,  disfigured  face,  once  so  handsome. 

"He  knows  her.  He  glad  to  see  her,"  said 
Rose,  coming  to  the  doorway. 


VALENTINE'S  CHANCE.  301 

Valentine  glanced  from  the  wife  to  the  sis- 
ter. All  that  there  could  be  of  womanly  ten- 
derness and  girlish  softness  seemed  expressed 
in  their  two  faces.  Were  table  manners  more 
important  than  the  best  of  human  virtues  ?  He 
went  about  his  bandaging  with  an  impatient 
gesture. 

At  noon  Frank's  condition  was  not  so  good, 
and  towards  night  it  grew  worse.  Celia  seemed 
unconscious  of  the  change. 

"  He  wants  me  all  the  time,"  she  said  quite 
happily  to  her  mother,  when  Valentine  was 
there.  He  had  not  the  courage  to  undeceive 
her,  and  after  giving  his  directions  went  out 
with  an  aching  heart.  He  found  Rose  sitting 
on  the  doorstep,  smiling  in  the  level  sunshine. 
He  stopped. 

"  You  like  being  out  of  the  mill,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  if  Frank  was  not  hurt ! " 

Something  stirred  within  him  like  a  yearning 
pain.  He  was  under  no  delusion  as  to  the  daily 
habits  and  thoughts  of  this  girl.  He  knew  the 
narrow  scope  of  her  ideas,  —  worse  still,  he 
knew  the  methods  of  her  toilet ;  and  yet  his 
heart  moved  towards  her,  as  she  sat  there  with 
her  sad,  sweet  eyes.  It  was  a  lovely  June  day, 
and  one  in  which  a  young  girl  should  delight. 

"  I  am  going  to  row  home,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
want  to  send  a  package  back  for  Frank.  Come 
with  me." 


302  VALENTINE'S   CHANCE. 

So  Valentine's  desire  fulfilled  itself,  and  at 
last  he  had  this  girl  of  alien  race  and  caste  alone 
with  him,  gliding  across  the  pond  while  cool, 
soft  airs  blew  about.  She  sat  in  the  stern,  her 
hands  lying  in  her  lap.  She  wore  a  pretty 
gown,  which  Miss  Jeffreys  had  given  her  that 
morning.  It  was  a  simple  affair  that  had  be- 
longed to  a  school-girl  sister  of  the  lady's,  but 
it  was  pink  with  a  white  guimpe,  and  it  made 
Rose  look  as  if  she  were  the  same  kind  of  dam- 
sel that  Jack  Valentine  had  been  used,  in  col- 
lege days,  to  row  over  still  waters  and  between 
green  pastures.  Her  happy  eyes  shone  darkly. 
Primitive  instincts  surged  within  him.  He  was 
sorry,  when  they  reached  the  landing-place, 
that  this  dangerous  half  hour  was  over,  and  yet 
at  the  same  instant  felt  thankful  that  he  had 
been  preserved  from  making  a  fool  of  himself. 

As  they  climbed  the  steep  path  up  the  little 
hillside,  he  did  not  know  whether  to  offer  her 
assistance.  He  was  not  sure  she  would  under- 
stand such  attention,  and  while  he  doubted  she 
ran  lightly  up,  and  he  had  no  choice  but  to  fol- 
low in  awkward  silence. 

When  they  reached  the  house,  Valentine 
brought  from  his  office  a  little  box,  and  gave  it 
to  Rose  with  a  message  for  Celia.  She  was 
going  home  by  the  road,  and  he  stood  under  the 
apple-tree,  and  watched  her  walk  down  the  path 
and  disappear  behind  some  syringa  bushes. 


VALENTINE'S  CHANCE.  303 

"Civilization,"  he  muttered,  "is  a  constrain- 
ing power.  I  can  imagine  a  state  of  existence 
in  which  I  should  run  after  her." 

An  hour  later  he  saddled  his  horse,  and  rode 
out  to  some  hills  overlooking  the  level  country. 
His  soul  gazed  before  him  into  darkness,  and  he 
felt  no  certainty  that  folly  or  guilt  did  not  lie 
hidden  in  its  depths.  It  seemed  preposterous 
that  things  should  have  come  to  such  a  pass 
with  him.  Great  sweeps  of  youthful  emotion 
rushed  over  him,  and  brought  half  glimpses  of 
truths  or  fancies,  such  as  he  had  not  hitherto 
known.  He  became  conscious  that  his  soul  was 
struggling  in  a  crisis  more  awful  than  that  re- 
lating alone  to  a  personal  passion  for  a  young 
girl. 

At  last  he  checked  his  horse,  and  stared  at 
the  silent  heavens.  Then  he  said  to  himself 
that  the  feeling  which  assumed  the  guise  of  a 
tempting  fiend  was  nevertheless  an  angel,  show- 
ing him  how  near  akin  human  beings  are  to 
each  other  in  spite  of  all  difference  of  rank  or 
culture.  He  must  not  love  this  girl,  but  he 
would  learn  from  the  impulse  which  drew  him 
to  her  humbly  to  recognize  the  elemental  tie 
which  binds  the  race  together ;  the  tie  whose 
vital  strength  had  made  it  possible  for  her  soft 
beauty  to  sink  into  his  soul,  notwithstanding 
the  infinite  space  between  her  lot  and  his. 


304  VALENTINE'S   CHANCE. 

When  he  went  that  evening  to  see  Frank,  he 
found  the  older  surgeon  in  the  bedroom.  It 
was  evident  to  everybody  now  that  the  poor 
fellow  must  die  soon.  At  midnight  Valentine 
was  again  at  the  house.  Celia  stood  fanning 
her  husband  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other 
trying  to  soothe  and  control  his  restless  fingers. 
She  looked  wan  and  old.  Georgine  was  help- 
lessly crying,  regarding  Frank  from  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  Rose  and  one  of  the  little  girls  knelt 
on  the  floor.  The  mother  sat  near  a  table 
where  a  lamp  was  burning,  and  read  prayers 
aloud.  The  nurses  passed  in  and  out,  and  in 
the  kitchen  a  number  of  people  were  gathered. 

Valentine  took  his  place  near  the  doorway, 
and  after  a  while  a  dark,  handsome  woman  came 
to  his  side.  She  nodded  towards  Celia,  and  let 
a  tear  run  down  her  cheek. 

"  Ain't  s'e  strong,"  said  she,  "  to  stand  there 
so  many  hours?  I  could  n't  bear  that,  if  it  was 
my  husband." 

Georgine  came  over  to  them  and  sobbed,  mis- 
using pronouns,  after  the  manner  of  French  Ca- 
nadians little  learned  in  English,  "S'e  will 
die  soon.  S'e  wife  will  die,  too." 

A  mist  swam  across  Valentine's  brain.  He 
looked  from  Celia  to  Rose,  and  moved  over  to 
the  open  window  and  gazed  out.  The  stars 
shone,  and  in  the  street  some  one  was  passing 


VALENTINE'S  CHANCE.  305 

with  a  lantern.  The  words  that  the  mother 
was  reading  made  their  way  into  his  conscious- 
ness. He  turned  back  to  the  room,  and  sat 
down.  He  wanted  to  kneel  with  those  who 
prayed.  The  mystery  of  death  oppressed  him. 
At  that  moment  it  did  not  seem  like  a  solution 
of  the  mystery  of  life. 

At  last  the  mother's  voice  ceased.  She  closed 
her  book,  laid  it  on  the  table,  and  crossed  to 
Celia's  side.  The  breathing  of  the  dying  man 
was  audible  in  the  hush.  Rose  got  up  from  her 
knees,  and  came  near  Valentine.  He  touched 
the  white  sleeve  of  her  pink  gown. 

"  You  must  make  Celia  go  out  of  the  room. 
This  will  kill  her,"  he  whispered. 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  All  the  glitter  was 
gone  from  her  eyes. 

"  No,  s'e  will  stay.  My  fadther  cannot  make 
her  go.  S'e  feel  so  much." 

As  the  dawn  gleamed  above  the  factory  roofs 
Celia  suddenly  uttered  a  low  moan,  threw  up 
her  hands,  and  fell  back.  Her  mother  caught 
her,  and  with  Valentine's  aid  carried  her  into 
the  little  chamber.  When  Celia  opened  her 
eyes  again,  Frank  was  dead. 


306  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE 

IV. 

Valentine  went  out  into  the  early  morning. 
He  turned  the  corner  of  the  house  to  go  behind 
it,  through  the  grove,  and  found  Rose  crouched 
under  the  pines  in  the  yard.  She  raised  a  white 
face  to  his.  His  nerves  quivered.  He  heard 
his  own  voice,  as  if  it  were  another's,  low  and 
passionate.  In  a  moment  more  he  found  him- 
self hurrying  through  the  woods.  She  remained 
behind,  with  her  head  dropped  in  her  hands. 
He  had  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

He  did  not  tell  himself  afterwards  that  a 
blameless  sympathy  had  prompted  that  kiss. 
He  denounced  himself  rather  as  that  most  un- 
worthy creature,  a  man  who  makes  love  to  a 
girl  he  will  not  marry.  His  self-disgust  inten- 
sified his  passion,  and  he  took  this  experience 
seriously,  because  his  moral  nature  mingled  in 
its  elements. 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral,  before  the  family 
left  the  house,  Celia  sat  patiently  on  the  bed, 
which  had  been  moved  back  into  her  little  cham- 
ber. She  was  shrouded  in  crape.  A  roll  of 
crape  —  furnished  by  Mr.  Jeffreys  —  lay  on  the 
kitchen  table,  and  Orselia,  the  handsome  young 
woman  who  had  stood  in  the  doorway  with  Val- 
entine the  night  that  Frank  died,  cut  long 
streamers  and  decorated  the  hats  of  the  bearers. 
Carriages  waited  outside. 


VALENTINE'S  CHANCE.  307 

Joe,  who  was  now  called  "  Frank's  brother  " 
by  the  people,  wrung  Beauvais's  hand,  and  said 
in  rapid  French,  "  Ah,  everything  is  fine,  but  it 
does  not  console  me." 

Rose  felt  a  little  important,  and  held  her 
head  with  some  dignity.  Georgine's  comeliness 
was  obscured  by  weeping,  but  she  was  satisfied 
with  the  splendor  of  the  occasion.  This  splen- 
dor was  rather  superficial.  The  kitchen  needed 
to  be  swept,  and  the  bed  on  which  Celia  sat  had 
not  been  made  that  day.  It  was,  however,  easy 
to  forget  the  slovenly  setting  of  the  poor  little 
show  when  one  looked  at  her  silent  face.  Other 
people  moved,  and  spoke  in  low  but  excited 
tones  ;  she  was  perfectly  still. 

At  the  last  moment,  Georgine  found  her  little 
sister  Laura  sitting  in  the  wet  sink  in  the  pan- 
try, helping  herself,  with  sticky  fingers,  to  cold 
potatoes  and  bacon  fat.  Georgine  bounced  the 
child  down  on  to  the  floor,  swept  off  the  slimy 
matter  adherent  to  the  back  of  her  frock  with  a 
gesture  that  suggested  discipline,  and  dragged 
her  back  to  the  kitchen. 

The  bearers  lifted  the  coffin  to  carry  it  out, 
and  the  women  began  to  wail ;  all  but  Celia, 
who  shut  her  lips  tightly.  The  crowd  poured 
slowly  and  decorously  into  the  open  air.  Beau- 
vais  led  Celia  to  a  carriage,  then  went  back  and 
locked  the  empty  tenement  behind  him. 


308  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE. 

Valentine  was  at  the  church.  Miss  Jeffreys 
was  there  also,  but  he  would  not  go  near  her, 
and  took  a  seat  on  the  side  aisle.  She  glanced 
at  him,  with  contracted  brows,  while  he  looked 
steadfastly  towards  the  altar.  The  service 
proceeded,  and  occasionally  a  sob  broke  forth 
among  the  congregation.  At  last  the  priest 
came  down  the  aisle,  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
coffin,  and  sprinkled  the  dead  man's  face  with 
holy  water.  A  boy  who  was  with  the  priest, 
and  who  swung  the  censer,  had  the  face  of  a 
young  angel,  grave  and  sweet.  The  rite  seemed 
very  solemn  to  Valentine.  To  his  imagination 
it  symbolized  the  oneness  of  this  life  and  that 
beyond  the  grave.  It  asserted  that  the  spirit 
of  man  is  subject  to  the  same  conditions  here 
and  hereafter.  Valentine  realized  then  that  his 
own  soul  was  essentially  in  eternity  that  hour 
no  less  than  was  the  soul  that  had  fled  from  the 
body  in  the  coffin.  As  the  beautiful  boy  waved 
the  censer,  and  the  incense  faintly  darkened  the 
air,  there  was  no  longer  any  noise  of  crying  in 
the  church. 

Miss  Jeffreys  passed  Valentine  in  the  porch, 
when  the  ceremonies  were  over.  "  Did  it  not 
make  you  feel  a  great  deal  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Are 
you  not  coming  ?  "  But  he  stood  still,  and  let 
her  go  on. 

He  saw  Rose,  at  last,  who  for  some  reason 


VALENTINE'S   CHANCE.  309 

had  not  yet  entered  a  carriage.  He  went  near 
her,  and  she  looked  at  him  strangely.  She  was 
paler  than  ever,  and  her  long  black  gown  gave 
her  a  womanly  air  and  added  a  moonlight  ef- 
fectiveness to  her  sadness  and  her  beauty. 

June  was  still  lovely  in  the  land,  when  Val- 
entine, very  early  one  morning,  leaned  out  of 
his  window,  and  heard  the  low  sound  of  a  hu- 
man voice  joining  in  that  matin  song  with 
which  every  bird  of  earth  and  air  was  strain- 
ing its  throat.  He  went  out-of-doors,  and  fol- 
lowed the  voice  till  he  came  to  a  little  clump 
of  shrubbery  not  far  from  the  house.  There 
he  found  Rose  sitting  on  the  grass,  behind  a  tall 
York  rose-bush.  She  was  singing  softly,  — 

"  Travialle  bien,  chere  petite," 

and  pulling  a  flower  to  pieces.  She  did  not 
move  as  he  approached. 

"  You  are  out  early,"  he  said.  She  threw  on 
the  ground  the  white  rose  with  which  she  had 
been  playing.  "  Not  a  factory  bell  has  rung 
yet,"  he  persisted.  "Does  your  father  wake 
you  at  this  hour  ?  " 

She  stood  up  then,  and  spoke :  "  I  cannot 
sleep  as  I  used.  First  I  wake,  then  I  dream. 
I  see  Frank.  So  I  come  out  of  the  house,  to  the 
fields." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  troubled  gaze,  from 


310  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE. 

•which  she  turned  quickly.  He  put  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder.  She  covered  her  face  and  trem- 
bled. He  remembered  that  he  had  kissed  her, 
and  took  away  his  hand.  The  fear  shot  through 
his  inconsistent  soul  that  this  girl  might  yet 
prove  a  greater  burden  to  his  conscience  than 
to  his  heart.  He  stooped  and  picked  up  the 
rose  she  had  thrown  at  his  feet;  then  turned  to 
the  bush,  and  gathered  some  sprays  heavily 
laden  with  white  blossoms  and  pink -tinged 
buds.  When  he  looked  again  at  Rose,  she  had 
raised  her  head  and  regarded  him  with  wet 
eyes. 

"I  go  to  the  mill  now,"  she  said,  and  at 
that  moment  the  factory  bells  clashed  through 
the  misty,  golden  air.  "  I  go  to  the  mill,"  she 
repeated. 

They  faced  each  other,  these  two  young  crea- 
tures, who  had  nothing  in  common  but  their 
youth  and  a  strange,  inward  yearning  toward 
each  other. 

When  the  bells  had  ceased  the  noise  that 
seemed  to  emphasize  the  difference  between 
them,  he  put  the  roses  in  her  hands,  and  said, 
"  Take  them  home.  Give  them  to  Celia." 

An  angry  flash  gleamed  in  her  eyes.  He 
frowned  back  unconsciously.  In  a  moment  the 
savage  look  died  out  of  her  face.  Her  hands, 
laden  with  the  roses,  drooped  with  a  pathetic 
gesture  of  obedience. 


VALENTINE'S  CHANCE.  811 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  «  S'e  will  like  them." 
Something  tugged  at  his  heart.  He  moved 
towards  her,  but  her  childish  docility  bore  her 
from  him.  She  turned,  and  drifted  submis- 
sively away.  He  watched  her  in  a  sort  of  stu- 
pid amazement.  When  she  was  quite  gone  he 
flung  himself  at  the  foot  of  the  York  rose,  and 
as  the  fatal  mill  bells  rang  again  buried  his  face 
in  the  grass,  and  sobbed  with  self-disgust  and 
pain.  It  seemed  to  him  unmanly  to  love  a  girl 
and  let  her  go  like  that ;  but  whether  the  un- 
manliness  lay  in  the  love  or  in  the  letting  go  he 
could  not  tell. 

v. 

Valentine  thankfully  seized  upon  a  pretext 
for  going  away  on  a  visit,  and  was  absent  sev- 
eral weeks.  When  he  returned  to  Blackbird 
Hollow,  he  learned  that  Mr.  Jeffreys  had  paid 
over  to  Celia  a  considerable  sum  of  money,  and 
that  the  whole  Beauvais  family  had  departed 
to  Canada.  Hearing  this,  he  reflected  again 
upon  the  impotent  part  he  had  played  in  rela- 
tion to  Rose,  and  the  reflection  did  not  increase 
his  satisfaction  with  life  or  with  himself.  Her 
removal  from  him  had  the  effect  upon  his  mind 
of  releasing  her  image  from  vulgar  associations, 
and  relegating  it  to  a  visionary  realm  of  senti- 
ment. He  thought  of  her  as  if  she  were  a  dis- 


312  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE. 

embodied  spirit,  and  ceased  mentally  to  pic- 
ture her  earthly  surroundings.  She  had  gone 
from  them  to  unknown  regions.  He  did  not 
struggle  against  this  idealizing  process.  He 
flattered  himself  that  through  it  his  passion 
would  fade  into  a  tender  memory,  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  fierce  gusts  of  emotion  occasion- 
ally sweep  over  him.  He  strove  to  believe  that 
it  was  best  that  circumstances  had  ai'bitrarily 
closed  the  affair,  since,  had  it  been  left  to  him 
further  to  determine  events,  she  must  have  been 
the  chief  victim  of  any  mistake  he  made.  It 
was  perhaps  a  little  significant,  however,  that  he 
took  pains  to  ascertain  the  name  of  the  Cana- 
dian town  to  which  Beauvais  had  gone.  He 
did  not  act  on  this  information  when  obtained, 
but  threw  up  his  practice,  and  went  with  friends 
to  the  Adirondacks. 

One  night  in  early  September,  at  about 
eleven  o'clock,  Valentine  was  driven  rapidly 
up  to  the  station  at  Mountain  Junction.  He 
jumped  from  the  buckboard,  lifted  down  his 
portmanteau,  watched  the  driver  turn  his 
horses,  then  went  into  the  waiting-room,  and 
found  no  one  there  but  the  red-bearded  night 
agent.  Valentine  was  on  his  way  to  meet  Miss 
Jeffreys  and  her  father,  and  go  with  them  deep 
into  Maine.  He  stepped  up  to  make  some  in- 
quiries of  the  agent,  and  was  told  that  his  train 


VALENTINE'S   CHANCE.  313 

was  an  hour  late.  He  received  the  information 
with  a  whistle,  deposited  his  valise  on  a  settee, 
and  walked  to  the  door  of  the  ladies'  waiting- 
room. 

A  girl  sat  near  the  farthest  window.  She 
was  dressed  in  black,  and  her  hair  was  knotted 
in  the  back  of  her  neck.  He  could  see  the  line 
of  her  averted  cheek,  and  had  a  glimpse  of  her 
ear  and  throat.  His  heart  leaped. 

"What  a  fool  I  am!"  he  muttered,  and  ad- 
vanced a  step.  She  turned  at  the  sound,  and 
he  saw  that  it  was  Rose  Beauvais  who  looked  at 
him,  her  pale,  clear  face,  her  dark  eyes,  gleam- 
ing as  they  had  so  often  gleamed  upon  his  fancy. 
It  seemed  another  midnight  dream. 

"  Rose  !  "  he  said. 

She  did  not  speak,  but  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on 
him  till  the  slow  tears  filled  them. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms.  "  What  is  it  ?  "  he 
murmured,  trying  to  hold  her,  but  she  slipped 
from  him,  and  sat  down  and  cried  again. 

"I  —  silly,"  she  said  at  last,  struggling  for 
self-control,  and  looking  like  Celia,  as  she  strug- 
gled. 

"  How  came  you  here  ?  "  he  demanded,  hang- 
ing over  her,  aching  to  caress  her. 

When  she  could  speak,  she  told  him.  She 
had  been  visiting  an  aunt  in  the  States,  had  not 
accompanied  her  family  to  Canada,  was  on  her 


314  VALENTINE'S   CHANCE. 

way  alone  to  rejoin  them.  The  train  in  which 
she  came  arrived  at  Mountain  Junction  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  previous  afternoon.  She  got  out 
to  change  cars,  felt  ill,  fainted  in  the  waiting- 
room,  and  lost  her  train.  There  would  not 
come  another  which  she  could  take  till  seven  in 
the  morning.  She  knew  of  nothing  to  do  but 
stay  there.  Some  rough  men  frightened  her 
in  the  earlier  part  of  the  evening,  but  the  sta- 
tion-master spoke  to  them.  Now,  she  had  been 
alone  for  a  number  of  hours.  She  spoke  with 
tremulous  little  gasps. 

"  I  so  lonesome,"  she  said,  "  when  you  come 
in,  it  startle  me,  and  I  cry." 

He  would  have  drawn  her  to  him,  but  she 
crept  back  into  the  corner  of  the  seat.  Then  it 
came  over  him  with  great  force  that  the  man 
who  will  not  love  must  respect.  He  rose  hast- 
ily, and  went  out  on  the  platform.  The  agent 
followed,  anxious  for  conversation.  After  a 
while  Valentine  looked  again  into  the  room. 
Rose  sat  quite  still,  leaning  forward  a  little,  as 
if  listening  to  something,  her  hands,  one  of  them 
gloved,  lying  in  her  lap.  A  single  swinging 
lamp  shed  its  yellow  light  on  her.  The  young 
man  stamped  as  he  turned  away,  and  strode  up 
and  down.  The  agent  went  back  into  his  den 
and  settled  himself  for  a  nap. 

The  interminable  minutes  trailed  by,  till  the 


VALENTINE'S  CHANCE.  815 

red-bearded  man  roused  himself  and  the  belated 
express  train  came  along.  Valentine  quietly 
watched  it  arrive  and  depart.  A  tall,  sham- 
bling man  was  the  sole  passenger  who  alighted. 
He  was  solemnly  received  by  a  man  who  had 
come  in  a  wagon,  and  they  drove  away  together. 

"  That 's  our  minister,"  the  agent  said.  "  B«en 
to  bury  his  wife.  I  'm  durned  sorry  for  him. 
Was  n't  this  your  train  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Valentine,  "  but  I  have  de- 
cided to  change  my  course." 

The  man  peered  at  him  with  natural  suspi- 
cion. 

"  Can  you  send  a  telegram  for  me  ? "  asked 
he,  irritated  by  this  scrutiny.  The  agent  nod- 
ded. Valentine  went  in  and  wrote.  The  dis- 
patch was  addressed  to  Miss  Jeffreys,  and  con- 
tained these  words  :  "  Delayed.  Will  write." 

He  seemed  to  see  Miss  Jeffreys'  fair  face  as 
he  listened  to  the  clicking  that  carried  his  mes- 
sage. Then  he  went  into  the  other  room.  It 
was  empty,  but  in  a  moment  Rose  came  in  from 
out-doors,  holding  her  hands  tightly  locked  to- 
gether. She  started  violently  at  sight  of  him. 
"  I  thought  you  gone,"  she  said.  "  I  saw  the 
train  go  by." 

He  smiled  down  at  her.  "  I  could  not  leave 
you  to  stay  here  alone.  You  might  get  fright- 
ened again.  I  shall  take  another  train  to-mor- 
row." 


316  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE. 

She  clenched  her  hands  harder  than  before, 
and  her  color  carne  and  went.  He  made  her  sit 
down. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  in  Canada?"  he 
asked. 

"  I  go  to  my  aunt  in  the  convent,"  she  said. 
"  I  go  to  school  there." 

He  leaned  forward  surprised.  "  But  you  will 
not  be  a  nun  ?  "  he  protested. 

"  Not  now,  not  at  first.  But  after  a  while, 
why  not  ?  My  aunt  say  she  happy.  I  not  like 
things,  going  about,  dancing.  Oh,  no.  I  want 
to  be  happy.  I  will  try  her  way.  Why  not  ?  " 

Why  not,  indeed  ?     Valentine  could  not  say. 

At  last,  he  urged  her  to  try  to  sleep.  With 
gentle  courtesy  he  arranged  his  overcoat  and 
made  her  a  pillow.  She  obeyed  him  with  weary 
submissiveness.  When  she  laid  down  her  head, 
he  bent  over  and  smiled  in  her  trusting  eyes. 
They  drooped  and  closed  under  his. 

He  left  her,  rejoiced  to  see  that  the  scrawny 
custodian  was  again  asleep  in  the  other  room, 
went  out,  and  paced  back  and  forth  under  the 
sky.  Sometimes  he  returned  to  the  door,  to  see 
if  Rose  was  safe,  but  he  dared  not  go  near  her. 
Pain  and  passion  filled  his  soul.  A  nun  !  That 
child,  with  those  unfathomable  eyes !  Up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  he  walked.  When  he  had 
let  his  train  go  on  without  him,  his  only  con- 


VALENTINE'S  CHANCE.  317 

scious  intention  had  been  to  stay  near  and  guard 
her  through  the  night,  but  now  all  intention 
was  whirled  away  in  the  trouble  of  his  mind. 
All  the  elements  of  his  life  rushed  in  turmoil 
about  his  imagination.  He  ached  in  every 
pulse,  and  set  his  teeth,  wrestling  like  an  ath- 
lete with  himself. 

Sometimes  the  agent  waked,  prompt  to  do 
some  duty.  Thrice  a  train  whizzed  by.  Val- 
entine kept  on  his  walk.  He  dared  not  stop. 
Some  horror  seemed  waiting  to  clutch  him  if  he 
stopped.  He  remembered  that  in  old  times  a 
young  man  kept  vigil  for  a  night  before  he  re- 
ceived his  spurs.  It  occurred  to  him  as  a  sort 
of  mocking  fantasy  that  this  autumn  night  was 
his  vigil.  He  stared  at  the  stars,  and  called 
on  God  for  help  in  his  extremity.  The  hours 
dragged  slow  as  torturing  wheels  might  revolve. 
How  long  she  slept,  how  peacefully  ! 

The  whole  of  wisdom  and  virtue  is  seldom 
gained  in  one  struggle,  however  sore  it  be.  Per- 
haps it  did  not  augur  very  ill  for  Valentine's 
future,  if  out  of  this  vigil  he  brought  only  his 
honor. 

In  the  early  dawn  Rose  woke,  and  sat  up, 
confusedly  looking  about  her.  There  was  bus- 
tle in  the  station  now,  and  many  people  were 
moving  here  and  there.  She  started  gladly  to- 
wards Valentine,  when  she  saw  him  enter  the 


318  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE. 

door.  He  was  very  pale,  but  he  smiled  at  sight 
of  her,  and  led  her  out  to  get  some  breakfast  at 
a  very  scantily  furnished  booth  in  another  room. 

When,  a  little  later,  the  train  which  she  was 
to  take  arrived,  he  entered  it  with  her.  He 
had  not  explained  his  purpose  to  her,  nor  had 
he  defined  it  to  himself.  He  acted  almost  with- 
out volition  or  conscious  intelligence,  like  a  per- 
son who  had  been  drugged.  All  that  he  did 
seemed  unreal  to  him,  yet  underneath  the  stu- 
por of  his  mind  he  must  have  had  some  idea  of 
the  end  towards  which  all  his  actions  tended. 
Certain  it  is  that  after  he  had  carried  Rose  to 
her  home  he  took  her  away  again,  without  the 
delay  of  a  single  hour  more  than  was  necessary 
for  the  ceremonies  that  made  her  his  wife.  This 
desperate  deed  accomplished,  the  dreamy  torpor 
rolled  slowly  from  his  brain,  and  he  felt  that 
real  life  was  closing  in  around  him  once  more. 

He  had  borne  the  contact  with  the  Beauvais 
family  as  best  he  might.  It  did  not  affect  him 
much  in  his  peculiar  mental  condition,  but 
something  in  Celia  impressed  him,  as  it  had  al- 
ways impressed  him,  in  a  way  that  promised 
possible  satisfaction  in  any  relation  to  her, 
should  there  ever  come  some  simple  but  vital 
need  of  help  in  his  life  and  Rose's.  Of  his  own 
friends,  he  saw  only  his  mother  and  sister,  be- 
fore sailing  with  his  wife  for  Europe.  Every- 


VALENTINE'S   CHANCE.  819 

body  else  except  Miss  Jeffreys  ignored  his  ex- 
traordinary marriage.  She  wrote  him  a  kind, 
regretful  letter.  As  nearly  as  he  could,  he  told 
his  mother  the  whole  story. 

"Ob,  Jack,"  she  groaned,  "that  you  should 
have  risked  all  your  life  on  such  a  chance !  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is  a  chance,"  he  answered,  "  but 
it  is  one  that  has  overwhelmed  me." 

On  the  day  her  son  was  to  sail,  the  mother 
saw  Rose  for  a  single  hour.  She  went  to  the 
meeting  with  intolerable  repugnance.  The  girl 
was  daintily  clad  in  a  manner  that  heightened 
the  delicacy  of  her  appearance.  There  was 
something  so  pathetic  in  her  strange  beauty,  in 
the  puzzled  look  in  her  dark  eyes,  in  the  dumb 
devotion  with  which  they  met  the  tenderness  in 
Valentine's  gaze,  that  the  mother's  heart  was 
softened  and  eased  of  some  of  its  pain.  She  re- 
flected that  she  had  known  many  marriages  in 
which  the  obstacles  to  happiness,  if  less  obvi- 
ous, had  not  been  less  real,  than  in  this  case, 
and  some  of  them  had  not  turned  out  badly ; 
but  then,  alas,  this  marriage  was  her  own  son's, 
and  that  made  it  a  more  serious  matter. 

When  they  bade  each  other  farewell,  Valen- 
tine put  his  hand  on  his  bride's  shoulder. 

"I  shall  not  bring  her  back,"  he  said,  "  till  I 
know  my  fate ;  but  I  am  not  afraid." 

Rose  looked  up,  wondering  what  he  meant ; 


320  VALENTINE'S  CHANCE. 

then  suddenly  took  his  hand  off  her  shoulder 
and  held  it  in  her  own.  She  turned  to  the 
other  woman  in  her  old  calm,  frank  way,  and 
said,  taking  great  pains  to  pronounce  cor- 
rectly, — 

"  He  is  very  good  to  me.     We  are  happy." 
"Oh,  God  keep  you  so!"  cried  the  mother 
through  quick  tears. 


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Standard  and  Popular  Library  Books.  7 

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